


Follow One Storm Upon Another

by agent_orange



Series: Follow One Storm Upon Another [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Birthday, Body Shots, Canon-Typical Violence, Cunnilingus, Dead Languages, Demons, Drawing, Dreams and Nightmares, Eventual Happy Ending, Exorcisms, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Fights, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gentle Sex, Holidays, Hunters & Hunting, Latin, One Night Stands, Penis In Vagina Sex, Road Trips, Sexuality Crisis, Shapeshifting, Shooting Guns, Slow Build, Surprise Kissing, Survival Training, Vaginal Fingering, Vampires, Vomiting, binge eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 16:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2156622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam leaves in the middle of the night with his brother; Jess, unaware of the real reason why Sam left, sets out to search for her missing boyfriend. She stumbles upon the Roadhouse, and the underworld of hunting, and changes her course, going on the road with Jo instead. The path she’s chosen for herself gives way to a new life. Jo trains her to fight, but she’s more than just a mentor. Jess’ conflicting feelings leave her stuck between searching for what she used to have, and accepting what she does have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jess catches herself as her eyelids start to flutter shut—she's been behind the wheel for more hours than she can remember. The sound of the tires against the rumble strip on the side of the road snaps her into attentiveness, and she jerks the wheel, narrowly avoiding a dangerous careen into the ditch.  
   
Adrenaline rushes to her heart, speeds up her breathing. The week's receipts and maps go flying; the detritus that's built up in the backseat from the long trip shifts audibly as she eases the car back onto the road. She takes a deep breath, trying to calm down; she could've _died_. She really needs to be more careful, or she'll definitely never see Sam again.  
   
She's been useless since Sam left. She never thought she'd be one of _those_ girls—the ones who needed a man to get by—but maybe she is. He's been gone for a couple weeks, and she feels worse than she did during finals week last year: angry, overly-sensitive, and stressed. Even loud, sarcastic Beth had been walking on eggshells around Jess. Her interviews for post-graduation jobs were supposed to start in early November, but Jess managed them to cancel them all without breaking down, knowing she wouldn't get anything besides a reputation as a nutjob. She and Sam were going to plan their futures together. She's got to find him.  
   
Looking back, it had been a huge mistake not to go with him. His brother had come for him in the middle of the night and whisked him off without so much as _meeting_ her first. That had been weeks ago, and Sam hasn't called or emailed or texted since, and she knows shit about where he is. Her friends and a few of her professors know that he'd just taken off, but school had been a nightmare. When she couldn't focus in class or even paint, she knew she couldn't just sit there and do nothing. Finding Sam gives her something to focus on, and calms her down a little, because she's dealing with the problem. Or trying to, at least.  
   
Jess sighs, and switches on the radio, hoping it'll keep her awake. She adjusts the stations until the static clears up, but when she hears a pounding beat and Lindsay Lohan's over-synthesized voice, she shuts it off again. It'll only make her headache worse.  
   
She has to find somewhere to sleep soon, anyway; there are hardly any working streetlights on this stretch of highway and it's getting late. She desperately needs to pee, and the only exit for fifty miles approaches so fast she hardly has time to switch lanes and slow down to make it.  
   
A few miles after the exit, she sees a bar. It doesn't look like much, and it's definitely not the kind of place she's used to, but it's the only place around. She parks her BMW, out of place next to the motorcycles and trucks.  
   
 _Harvelle's Roadhouse_ is written in flickering fluorescent lights above the entrance, and the feeling that she doesn't belong gets even worse once she's inside the bar. It's filled mostly with guys—big, burly men in plaid flannel and ripped jeans, broken up into small groups, laughing and chugging beer. They look like truckers, or maybe hunters, though Jess isn't really sure what there is to hunt in Nebraska. The few women look pretty much the same, tough and hardened, like they could kick her ass, which intimidates Jess a little. For a minute, Jess feels like she should get back in her Beemer, find the nearest big city and spend the night there, before hightailing it back to Palo Alto in the morning. She wants to find Sam, though, and she doesn't want to turn down an opportunity to find some information.  
   
"Is there a restroom I can use?" Jess asks the woman—Jess guesses she's in her early forties—behind the bar.  
   
"Paying customers only," she replies, gesturing to a sign by the cash register that says just that.  
   
"Okay." Jess fishes her wallet out of her bag and takes out a few bills. "Could I get a rum and Coke? And some fries?"  
   
"Sorry, hon," the woman says, giving Jess a slightly pitying look. "We don't serve food."  
   
"Shit," she mutters under her breath, and right on cue, her stomach rumbles, a long, low growl that makes a few of the other patrons turn and look at her. Jess ate the last of her snacks earlier today, and she was looking forward to having some kind of a real meal, but apparently that wasn't going to happen. "Ladies' room?"  
   
The woman points her to a hall in back; when Jess is finished, she swings by the bar to get her drink and picks a quiet corner table to drink it at. A couple guys leer at her, but she ignores them, listening for any information that could help her. She'd had one of Sam's geeky computer science friends check, and for whatever reason, Sam has more than a few PO boxes scattered across the country, and the one in Kansas got a package a couple days ago. She's hoping to catch up with him while he's still on the grid, which happens once every couple of weeks, for a few days at a time.  
   
She takes another long sip of rum and Coke, catching a few random snippets of conversations as she scans the room again—there's no sign of Sam, but if he was there, she would've spotted him first thing. She doesn't mean to listen in on other people, but they're louder than the music playing in the background, so it's kind of hard not to let herself get drawn in by what they're talking about—something involving dogs and scarecrows and...doing something involving rabbit's feet, which is kind of weird (okay, it's really weird), but she's not about to say anything and get thrown out of the only bar, and only possible source of information, in town.  
   
"Listening in, I see," someone says from behind her, and Jess flushes, embarrassed at how obvious she's apparently been.  
   
"I..." Her words feel like they're stuck in her throat, and she doesn't know why. "They're all loud, and it's—" She takes a breath, trying to clear her head, and starts over. "Never mind," she says. "Could I get another rum and Coke?"  
   
The waitress is around the same age as Jess, maybe a little younger; she's blonde and petite, too innocent-looking to be working at a truck stop like this. "Sure thing. Just gimme a sec to get those guys—" she tilts her head towards the quietest group, a few guys sitting in the corner, talking in hushed tones "—their drinks. They get impatient and...grabby sometimes."  
   
The girl makes her rounds, stopping at tables to chat with the guys for a few minutes, and glaring at them when their hands get too close. They look mildly intimidated, even though the girl's a slender little wisp of a person. She swings back around with Jess' drink, sets it on the table. "We don't get many tourists this way." The girl offers her hand for Jess to shake. "I'm Jo."  
   
"Jess. And I'm not a tourist. I'm just passing through."  
   
Jo raises her eyebrows. "What for?"  
   
"I'm kind of looking for someone."  
   
"Yeah?" Jo asks.  
   
"Yeah, I know it's a long shot, but a friend told me he'd been in the area, and I thought maybe he stopped here? His name's Sam," she says, slipping the photo of him out of her wallet, "and, well, this is him." The chance Sam stopped in is probably slim, but it _is_ the only place around, and Jess has been showing his picture everywhere she stops, just in case.  
   
Jo studies the photo for a long minute, eyebrows knitting together in concentration, before shaking her head. "I don't remember him, but a lot of people come through here. Ellen—my mom—is good with faces. I bet she can help you. We'll be closing up pretty soon, if you wanna stick around 'till then."  
   
"Sure, yeah. Um...I know you don't serve food, but I haven't eaten since lunch. No chance you guys have something stashed in the back, right?"  
   
Jo smiles. "Yeah, I'm sure I can find something." She slips over to the bar without any customers noticing her and pulls a bag of pretzels from underneath. On the way back, though, some guy flags her down. She heaves a sigh and strides over to his table, hand on her hip.  
   
Jess yawns, reaches for her phone to check the time, but it's not in her pocket. She must've left it in the car. Figures. She hopes they close soon, because she really needs to find a place to sleep and get back on the road early tomorrow.   
   
"Back!" Jo says cheerfully, and Jess notices the bartender standing beside her, arms folded. "Jess, this is my mom, Ellen. Mom, this is Jess. She's looking for her boyfriend."  
   
"His name's Sam." Jess hands Ellen the photo.  
   
"Sam?" Ellen asks, raising an eyebrow exactly the way Jo did earlier. "We get a lot of people through here, and I don't always know everyone."  
   
"Sam Winchester." _Like the gun_ , she'd joked when they met, but apologized after she felt his stare turn cold and his hand go stiff around hers.  
   
"Winchester," Ellen repeats, rolling the name around in her mouth. "Now there's a name I haven't heard in years." Her eyes glaze over for a minute, but she shakes out of it and asks, "This boyfriend of yours got a brother?"  
   
"Yeah—Dean. He's a mechanic." Ellen doesn't say anything in response, and Jess starts to worry. What if Sam's dead, and Ellen's trying to figure out how to tell her? She does her best to keep her voice from shaking, asks, "Does that...do you know where he is?"   
   
"I've never met him myself, but his dad used to stop by here sometimes." Ellen glares at Jo, long and hard, like she's willing her not to say anything.  
   
"Sam hasn't spoken to his father in years." Jess never could figure out what Sam had done that was so awful, so unforgivable, that his own father would cut him out of their life. She knows Sam's not perfect (stubborn, hot-tempered, and moody); when Sam told her that his dad told him never to come back, she'd been so upset. She'd been raised with the idea that family is everything, and she doesn't understand how Sam's own father could hate him. "What does he have to do with this?" She remembers Sam saying his dad was furious that Sam was going to Stanford, and adds, "Wait, this isn't some bullshit fight about their family business or company or whatever, is it?"  
   
"The family business?"  
   
"Yeah," Jess replies. "'Winchester and Sons' Garage', I think. Sam's dad cut him out because he wouldn't stick around to fix engines all day."  
   
"Oh, is that what they called—ow!" Jo yelps, and rubs her arm where Ellen's pinched it.  
   
"Maybe we should talk about this in private," Ellen says, and Jess is glad. If something _has_ happened to Sam, she doesn't want to find out about it in front of a roomful of strangers.

Ellen gets everyone out of the bar faster than Jess' ever seen anyone do it, though she doesn't bother waking some guy who's lying passed out on a pool table. "That's Ash," Jo says, nods at him, and Jess understands. There's always an Ash; her group of friends is no exception, and neither is Sam's.  
   
"Tell me about Sam," says Ellen, looking Jess up and down. She doesn't let anything on, but Jess feels like she's being judged.  
   
"Um," she starts, not sure how to sum him up in only a few words. "He's twenty-two, and he's—well, he was—pre-law. He hasn't spoken to his dad or Dean in a few years, and he doesn't have any other family. We've been dating for almost a year and a half. He's really shy and quiet, and...really tall. Does that cover it? I mean, I love him. I want him to come home." Her voice wavers, but doesn't crack, and she's glad. She hates showing weakness in front of strangers.  
   
"And when did you say he left again?"  
   
"A few weeks ago. Dean—who I never even met, by the way—broke into our apartment in the middle of the night. Sam went to go see who it was, and when he came back, he said that their dad 'was on a hunting trip and hadn't been home in a few days.' I didn't even know Sam had ever gone hunting, but I guess his dad goes pretty regularly."  
   
"Had he been acting weird recently?" Jo this time, butting in and ignoring her mother's wishes for her to stay out of it. "You know, moody, suspicious, anxious?"  
   
"Not really," she says, thinking back. "I mean, he was so stressed about taking the LSAT, but I didn't notice anything strange." Except for the headaches and the nightmares, she adds silently, unsure if mentioning them is relevant or necessary.  
   
"And do you know anything about his family?"  
   
"His dad's a real piece of work; Sam said his brother looked out for him."  
   
"Jess," Ellen begins cautiously, like she's trying not to startle a wild animal. "Sam told you about what happened to his mom, right?"  
   
"She died when he was a baby." Growing up without a mom must've been hard for him—she couldn't have done it, even though her early teenage years were miserable with her mom nagging at her all the time; she'd brought it up a few times, only to have him brush it off, like he did whenever she tried to talk about his family or his past. "Something was wrong with the wiring in their house. A fire started in his nursery—it's amazing he got out." He always said his brother looked out for him, and there'd been days when he talked about Dean like he was some kind of hero. Especially when he was drunk.  
   
"There was a fire." Ellen nods, light catching her face, an illusion that makes her expression look softer than it probably is. "But nothing was wrong with the wiring."  
   
"Someone set their house—Sam's room—on fire?" It comes out more caustic than she'd meant for it to, but doesn't stop. "Why?"  
   
"John's been trying to figure that out for years. That's one of the reasons why they moved around so much," Ellen says.   
   
"He knew who did it?"  
   
"It wasn't—"  
   
"You tell her about the fire, Mom, you'll have to tell her about everything," Jo protests. "There's a reason it happens under the radar. She doesn't need to know."  
   
She might finally be getting some answers, but Jess is anxious. What if it's bad news for her, or what if Sam's in trouble? She's not even sure how well Ellen and Jo even know the Winchesters, or how much she can trust them. They're all Jess has right now, though. "I'm his girlfriend. I think I deserve to know what's going on."  
   
"Joanna Beth, I know what it's like to wait for someone who's not coming back." Ellen's voice is harsh, but also tight with pain, like a guitar string that's about to break. "She should know the truth."  
   
That worries Jess more—what does Ellen know that makes her think Sam's not coming back?—but she reminds herself that Ellen doesn't know Sam, doesn't know how loyal he is, that she's talking about herself and not Jess. "What is the truth, then?" When Ellen doesn't answer, Jess adds, "I can handle it." Still nothing. "Well, okay, then. Thanks for your help. I guess I'll just try to find Sam myself, and if I go missing just like he did, it'll be on you."  
   
She knows it's a low blow, but she's desperate here, and her other tactics aren't working. Ellen looks taken aback, and Jess feels guilty, but doesn't risk apologizing; it might undo the progress she's worked to make. "No one else is going missing, Jess," Ellen says. "I'll tell you what you want to know. Just keep in mind that you might not believe me."  
   
"I'm listening," Jess says.  
   
"It wasn't a person that killed Sam's mom, Jess."  
   
"You mean it wasn't human or something? Please. I'm blonde, not dumb." If it wasn't an accident, and it wasn't a person, she doesn't know what's left. And she's not in the mood to be made to look like a fool.  
   
"It was a demon," Ellen says flatly, avoiding Jess' gaze. "Exactly six months after Sam was born."  
   
"That's ridiculous. Are you crazy?" Jess counters. She can't believe this is actually happening. "That's bullshit—demons. You can't expect me to think you're telling the truth."  
   
"Why would we lie to you?" Clearly, Ellen's trying to soothe her, but it's a little past that now. It's not until Ellen says, "Just calm down," that Jess realizes she's breathing faster than normal. Jess hiccups quietly, trying to process the situation.  
   
"So...there's a demon—" she pauses, waiting for Jo to nod. It's starting to sink in. "You think it had something to do with his mom's death? The thing was after Sam?" She hopes it wasn't, or isn't—it could be looking for him right now, and Jess can't tell him, or do anything to help.  
   
"Could've been." Jo's nonchalant, somehow. Jess remembers that the Winchesters don't mean much to Ellen, not anymore, and probably even less to Jo. To them, Jess is just some desperate girl on a futile mission. "Don't think too many people know about it, though."  
   
"What, the demon?" Then it hits her. "Wait, other people know about this?"  
   
"Hunters," Ellen tells her. "They've been known to pass through here from time to time. They deal with all those monsters your parents always told you weren't real—they're real. Werewolves, ghosts, poltergeists, demons; you name it, it's probably out there."  
   
Head spinning with the sudden information, all Jess can do is say, "Please tell me you're joking."  
   
Ellen shakes her head. "Wish I was, though. You seem like a nice girl, Jess. Smart. I'm sorry this is happening to you."  
   
"No. No." Her boyfriend's family can't be as fucked-up as Ellen says. The whole thing is just a really long, really vivid nightmare, and Sam will be in soon to wake her, to hold her and tell her everything's okay while she sips a glass of water. "I still don't believe you."  
   
"Just think about it for a minute. Did Sam have any weird scars he couldn't explain? Strange books or objects he kept hidden? Lots of salt or water by the door? He ever explain why he's lived so many places? Bet he didn't talk about his family." Ellen sets a glass and a bottle of Jim Beam in front of Jess. "It's a hard life. We know. Have a drink on the house."  
   
"Thanks." She's never really liked whiskey—the few times she'd tried it, it was like fire in her mouth, burning as it slid down her throat—but now seems like as good a time as any to start drinking. "Y-yeah, he—he had a lot of scars, actually." They didn't look like the ones most people got as kids, from falling off a bike or stepping on a sharp-edged shell at the beach. His scars were unusual: three long scratch marks on his leg, a smattering of silver at the small of his back, a burn on his forearm that left the skin a little distorted. "I just figured...never mind." She doesn't want to explain to one of John's friends that she thought he was an alcoholic (Sam had admitted that, at least) who got angry when he drank and took it out on Sam. "He used to read some...unusual books—just a couple. One was in Latin, one had symbols I'd never seen before on it." She didn't snoop, though; she wouldn't want him to go through her things, and she figured they were just books for one of his mythology classes or something.  
   
"What kind of symbols?" Jo asks.  
   
"Um..." Jess digs around in her bag for a pen, sketches one of them out on a napkin.  
   
"Pentagram." Ellen glances at Jo. "Anything else?"

"Not that I can remember, but he'd draw them all over his notes when he got stressed."  
And that's when everything starts to make some sense. She'd been cleaning the apartment one time, and found this weird curved blade hidden behind the headboard, behind their winter clothes and old assignments. He'd never used it, that she knew of, or even acknowledged its existence. She'd wanted to confront him about it, but couldn't bring herself to; now she wishes she had. Maybe if she had, none of this would have happened.  
   
"Holy shit," she breathes, dropping her head into her hands. Sam had been lying to her since they met. She would have...okay, no, she probably wouldn't have believed him if he'd told her the truth, but he should've, before they moved in together. Now she has to hear it from a couple people she doesn't know and who haven't seen Sam in years. "I gotta—" Jess mumbles, rushing for the bathroom; she barely makes it to the toilet before vomiting up everything she's eaten that day, which isn't much. Mostly it's just bile burning her throat, the acidity easier to deal with than what she's just learned.  
   
Afterwards, she washes her face, changes into sweats (Ellen found her after she got sick and offered her a place to sleep for the night, and Jess wasn't going to turn her down), and climbs into bed. Her mind is racing, but she's so exhausted that she gets to sleep within minutes.

*

As tired as Jess was, she couldn't stay asleep for long; now she's waking in fits and starts. There's a knock on the door of Ellen's tiny guest room, and then footsteps as someone—or some _thing_ —enters, and Jess bolts upright. A few hours ago, she found out that her boyfriend and his family hunt down creepy as shit creatures—ones that probably only come out at night—and now something's coming into her room. For a second, she wishes her pepper spray wasn't in her bag all the way across the room, but realizes, slightly hysterically, that pepper spray probably wouldn't have any effect if the something is non-human. And that only people have the sense to knock on a door before entering.  
   
When a ray of light spills in from the hallway, she can see it's only Jo. It takes a minute for her heart to stop pounding in her chest, but her breathing slows to normal. "What the fuck?" she hisses.  
   
"Sorry," Jo says. "I didn't want to wake my mom up. She has super-hearing." A blanket gets shoved under the door to contain their voices. It reminds Jess of how, before anyone got high on-campus, they'd roll up a towel and put it in the door crack to keep the pot smoke in. "I'm leaving tomorrow," Jo says, hopping up onto the bed and sitting cross-legged atop the comforter.  
   
"Okay? So am I, probably."  
   
"I mean I'm leaving to go back on the road tomorrow. Back to hunting. I tried college for a little bit—University of Nebraska at Omaha—but...it didn't exactly work out. Mom made me come back home again, has me waiting on the same idiots I did before I left. If I stay here any longer, I'll go crazy." Jo pauses for a minute, and then cautiously says, "And you should come with me. Sam's a hunter—it's in his blood. He's moving around a lot, so the best way to find him would be to go on the road, find a few hunts."  
   
"I'm in _college_ ," Jess says. "I'm at _Stanford_. I'm supposed to graduate in May and get a job at an art gallery while I work on my own paintings. Sam was going to go to law school and...propose, I think, and I'm supposed to give all that up and hunt all the things that go bump in the night?" That terrifies her almost as much as the idea of losing Sam.  
   
"You really love him," Jo says. It's not a question. "If he gave up hunting once, it's because he wanted a normal life, and when you find him, you can put everything behind you. You're obviously smart, and it'd be nice not to fight demons alone. Hunters travel the country, and what better way to find Sam than to do what he's doing? Follow his tracks. I think—with some work—you could be a good hunter, but you're not going to learn how by yourself. Besides Sam, I'm the only hunter you know, and I can help you. Someone's got to. What good would it do to get killed looking for him because you don't know how to handle yourself? So here's the deal: you can do whatever it takes to find Sam, or you can go back to college and spend the rest of your life wondering if he's out there. What's it going to be?"  
   
"Can I sleep on it?" Jess asks.  
   
Jo nods. "I'll wake you in the morning and you can give me your answer then. Don't think too hard."

She doesn't sleep right away; instead, she weighs the pros and cons, but that doesn't feel right. She thinks with her heart, not her head, and now isn't the time to make a switch. Jess isn't the kind of person who sits around while life happens around her—Sam had said he liked that about her—and she's not ready to give up on him yet, or on the life they could have together. If Jo thinks hunting is the best way to find him, Jess will do it. She won't necessarily like it, but she'll do it.  
   
Giving up Stanford is big too, but she's already the semester off, and she can always go back. If she can't, which probably isn't likely...well, she doesn't have a plan for that, but she can deal with that later. She wants to find Sam _now_. Eventually, her worn-out brain shuts off, and she falls asleep.

*

Dawn, and someone—Jo—is shaking Jess out of bed, saying, "In or out?"  
   
Sunlight streams in through the blinds, _way_ too bright for Jess' tired eyes, and she raises a hand to shield them from the glare. "Wha?" She's never been a morning person.  
   
"Are you coming or not? If you are, we gotta go."  
   
Jess takes a deep breath, gathering courage. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah, I am."  
   
"Then get moving. My mom's a light sleeper," Jo explains. "Can you be ready in five minutes?"  
   
"Make it ten?" Jess groans.  
   
Jo sighs, exhales heavily. "Just hurry up."  
   
The shower spray is freezing cold, so she washes her hair and face in the sink, the lukewarm water a poor substitute for the real thing. Afraid of waking Ellen, she doesn't blow-dry, just pins her hair up into a tight bun, and tugs on jeans and a hoodie—Sam's, gray cotton warm and soft against her skin. It smells like him (Ivory soap, clean sweat, Doublemint gum) mixed with the faint trace of her perfume, and it's overwhelming. Inexplicably, it seems like he could be just around the corner, or a few miles down the road. Her brain knows he's not, but her heart hopes he is.  
   
In the kitchen/dining room are her bags and Jo's three duffels, along with a tackle box—filled with what, Jess doesn't know.  
   
"We need to figure out what to do with your car," Jo says, crossing off items from a checklist in her head. "And your credit card bills, and your apartment—"  
   
"Already got a subletter." One of Laura's friends is doing a stint at Dragon Productions Theatre Company, so Jess offered her the apartment for as long as she needs it. (As long as Jess could have it back in the spring, that is, which should be more than enough time to find Sam and get settled in again.)  
   
Jo continues like Jess hasn't interrupted. "A new license and passport, and you should set up a PO box or two. You have a preference of fake names?"  
   
"Not...really?" What's she supposed to say—"yes," and then pull out a list of aliases she's always wanted to use?  
   
"Okay. Hang on." Jo pulls a crappy, beat-up Nokia from her pocket and scrolls through. "I think I might have someone who can take your car off your hands."  
   
 _Take it off her hands_? Since when was that part of the plan? "Can't we just leave it here?" she asks. The Roadhouse is quiet—well, fairly quiet—and there's not much around to disturb it.  
   
"We're going to need cash. I know your parents probably pay for everything you need at college, but they're probably not going to spring for motel rooms and diner food."  
   
That stings a little, but it's true; unlike Sam, Jess doesn't need financial aid, so her job at the gallery is just for experience and spending money. She lets Jo text the contact, who says he'll meet them in Bondurant in a few days.  
   
While she drives, she thinks about Sam. He could be out there. It's not like him to just take off without letting her know, so whatever he left for, it's something massive, beyond imagination. They'd had days when they didn't see each other (finals week, or if one of them had a big test or a project), but he'd leave notes around the apartment for her to find—on her pillow, taped to the carton of orange juice in the fridge, on top of her favorite pair of jeans. She hasn't gotten a call or an email or _anything_ , and it freaks her out. He's fighting monsters out there; all kinds of shit could happen to him.  
   
She focuses on the road instead of worrying, though (or tries to), because the last thing she needs right now is to get into an accident.

*

The rain's coming down practically in sheets by the time they make it to Des Moines. Jess follows Jo's car off the highway, and pulls over after Jo. She doesn't know what time it is, but she does know it's too early to pack it in for the night. "Why are we stopping?" she asks.

"There's a library around here somewhere," Jo says. "About ten miles. Just tail me 'till we get there."

It springs into view after a few minutes—a recently renovated building with huge windows. Jess realizes they're at Wayne State College, which she's never even fucking heard of. They sprint from the car to the library, but managed to get soaked just the same. Covering her head with her hands doesn't do much good; the water flattens her hair into soggy curls and makes her jeans heavier. Jess feels her eyeliner streaking and smudging at the corners of her eyes; she rubs at it until it's either gone or smudged worse, but she's not sure which it is. Jo pays five dollars for a card after having convinced the librarian she's a new student without a student ID yet (well, Marta Browning does, but the photo on the license is one of Jo staring blankly into the distance), turns Jess towards the back of the room and gives her a crumpled-up sheet of paper. "Get any books about subjects on this list; I'll start from the other side and meet you back here when you're done."

The scrawls are almost illegible, but Jess' dad is a doctor, so she's gotten good at deciphering. Jo's handwriting takes a little more effort. Folklore, demonology, and religious literature books quickly pile up into a stack, but there are only so many she can carry to the front desk. Jo's waiting there with even more (if that's possible).

"Research paper?" the librarian asks, and Jo invents something about dissertations and "very demanding course loads" and "the most important year of our lives." She's a natural liar, it seems like, innocent face and open eyes that anyone would trust. She coaxes the librarian into letting them check out five more books than they're alloted. Jess doubts they'll return them.

*

The Holiday Inn is Jess' idea of roughing it, but this motel is much worse: decrepit building, burned-out lights, vaguely horror-movie-ish.

"Uh, two queens," Jess says to the guy behind the counter when he asks _king or queen?_ and leers at them like he thinks he's being subtle about it. He frowns, looking thoroughly disappointed.

The beds are small enough that getting a king and sharing it would have probably been better, but it's too late now. She starts in on the rest of her giant bag of Skittles (bought at some rest stop over a hundred miles back). Jo declines any when Jess offers, which is fine—more for her—and opts for one of those packs of sunflower seeds. Jess watches her crack the shell with her teeth, spit it into the trashcan, which is at least seven feet away, and grind the seed into what's pretty much powder before repeating the process.

"How can you do that?" Jess asks. She usually thinks it's gross when guys spit on the street, but Jo makes it seem kind of cool.

"Do what?" The shell cracks especially loudly this time.

"Spit that far."

Jo smiles. "I'll teach you sometime. We should get to bed, though—I've got someone coming to look at your car tomorrow, and he'll be here early. He's a hunter. A real good one, too. He's a little...gruff, but that's nothing to be afraid of."

"Okay. Just to be clear on this, though, how early is early? This morning was _brutal_."

"Get used to it," Jo warns.

*

Jo's contact pulls up in a Chevelle that's older than both her and Jess—1971, maybe—and introduces himself as Bobby Singer. He's wearing a baseball cap so beaten-up that the insignia's faded so much Jess can't tell what it was, and a flannel shirt, which seems to be something all hunters wear. He calls Jo an idiot for running off on her mother.

"Ellen know you're here?"

"No, and you better not tell her."

"You think she won't figure it out soon enough? Your mother's not dumb, missy. Shame on you for lying to her," he scolds.

"Whatever you say." Jo rolls her eyes.   
Neither of them say anything after that, and Jess feels like she should break the tension. "Um, it's a 2002 BMW. Really good condition."

Bobby just looks at her like she's stupid. "I got eyes."

"Right." Hopefully any more of Jo's contacts Jess meets will be a little less abrasive. "So, are you interested?"

He takes his time, walking around the car, running his hands over it, peering at the features. The paint's a little uneven near the left headlight (Jess hit a mailbox her first time out alone); if he notices it, he doesn't say anything. "Five grand," Bobby offers. "You won't get much more for it around here."

It's worth more, definitely, but she's going to need the money and there's no way it's coming from her trust fund. Her bank account's full enough, but there's only so long that'll last before her parents start noticing the balance declining faster than usual.

"You should do it," Jo says. "We just can't take it on the road. Trunk's not big enough, and we don't wanna draw any extra attention to ourselves by having a nice car. Cops get suspicious."

"Okay, yeah. Let me just grab a couple things from inside." She hands over the keys, and Bobby pays her in a stack of twenties.

"Be careful out there," he warns them.

As soon as he's gone, Jo says, "We should split the cash. If something happens to one of us, at least the other's still got enough to get by for a while."

She hesitates, fingers wrapped right around the bills. She doesn't know Jo that well and she doesn't have a car now, so Jo could just dump her and run. "I, um, I'd rather hold onto it," she says, keeping her voice quiet.

"I'm not just going to leave you out here," Jo says. "You can trust me."

Jess wants to believe her, but given recent events, it's going to take time. She can barely believe what she's learned in the past few days; believing anyone about anything is a stretch right now. Luckily, Jo doesn't insist on dividing the money, instead asking, "How good are you at pool? We'll need to hustle, at some point."

Jess shrugs. "Eh...I'm better at darts."

"That'll do." Jo nods. "And you'll probably be good at hustling—those boobs, a few beers, a dumb blonde act, and you're good to go."

"Really?"

It's comforting to know she could actually be good at the job (or something that helps with the job, at least), because that's a step in the right direction. It feels weird to her that Jo had obviously checked out her boobs at some point, but she reminds herself that they're kind of hard to miss and silently accepts the compliment.

*

Ellen calls that night—Bobby probably tipped her off, because the note Jo had left said that she was going back to UNO for a few days to catch up with some friends—and she's yelling so loudly that Jo has to hold the phone away from her ear. Jess tugs a pillow down over her head, tries not to think about the fights she used to have with her own mother that left both of them seething. It doesn't work, and she pinches the bridge of her nose to hold back the tears forming behind her eyes.

"Joanna Beth Harvelle," Ellen is saying, her voice stern and demanding. "You get your ass back in that truck and you come home _right now_ or I swear to God, I'll—"  
   
"You'll what, Mom? You'll _make_ me? I'm an adult. I want to hunt. I want to save people from dying like—" Jo lowers her voice to a whisper, enough so that Jess has to strain to hear. "You can either deal with it, or cut me out of your life, and I really don't think you want more enemies."  
   
It feels awkward, being in the middle of their fight, so Jess heads for the bathroom. The shower is kind of rank, so she slides into a pair of flip-flops, and the water pressure's crappy, but the temperature is almost hot enough. Her shower gel is cool in her palms, smell of almond-coconut filling her nose and making her think of home—showers with Sam before breakfast or after a long day of classes. She remembers the times he'd pressed her up against the glass door, gotten her off with the vibrating showerhead, one hand over her hip, like he'd been afraid she'd leave if he didn't keep her there. He'd always washed her hair afterwards, massaging the foam into her scalp, combing out the tangles as the water rinsed them clean. Sam was _perfect_ to her, kind and generous and loving. She could never stay mad after they fought (all of their arguments were stupid in retrospect: every so often, she'd ask about Dean or his dad; he'd yell that it was the one part of his life that he needed to keep private.  
   
They'd fight over other stuff, too. Jess hated when his drunk friends ended up crashing on their couch; he'd wanted her parents to stop asking Sam about when he was going to marry their daughter—"We haven't even fucking _graduated_ yet, and I love you, you know I do, I just...need to go to law school first." He'd always brought her something as a token of his apology—a chocolate peppermint cupcake from Sprinkles or a trashy tabloid he said she wasted her brain on—and rest his head in her lap, saying _I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ , over and over until he felt forgiven, or until he forgave himself. She'd cook dinner for him, curl up against him in bed and stroke his hair until he fell asleep.

Jess leans back against the water-warmed tile of the shower wall, not caring that it's grimy, and lets the water wash her tears away.

When she goes back into the bedroom, one towel around her body and another around her hair, Jo's eyes are red-rimmed and bright, but she's smiling a little. "Mom's not happy, but she's not going to track us down and kick my ass." She wipes her nose with a tissue from a box on the table, then sniffles again. "I have to call or write at least once a month, which sucks, but—"

"No, that's great! It's probably better if you're not worrying about her finding out every step of the way."

"Uh-huh. She did tell you to make sure I don't do anything too stupid, though, so she'll probably come looking for you if I die." Jo's stomach growls loudly. "Yeah, I could really go for some dinner right about now."

"I feel like pizza," Jess agrees. "Extra cheese, extra bacon." She finds a phone book in one of the night-table drawers, and asks for it to be delivered to the front office of the motel. Already, she knows to keep their information and whereabouts as private as possible.

The pizza comes with Cinna Stix and a big bottle of Sprite, which is great; she tips the poor kid stuck delivering food a couple extra dollars and deems not to tell Jo about that part.

 _True Life_ is on TV. Jess only half-watches; everyone else's problems seem so petty and insignificant.

"Pretty stupid, huh?" Jo laughs. "Like, cry more, it's your own fault you got pregnant at fourteen, and it's your own fault for keeping it."

"Exactly," Jess agrees. With MTV on, and greasy pizza in front of them, it almost seems like Jo could be a roommate or a friend. So just for tonight, she pretends she's normal.


	2. Chapter 2

Reading in the car isn't ideal, especially with the crappy shocks of Jo's car (and especially with a stomach full of greasy hash browns), but there are a few hours left to drive before they get to Johnston, which is the last place Sam's cell phone GPS put him. The books are full of information on vampires and how to kill them, and the graphic descriptions make Jess a little nauseated. "Even some hunters don't think they're real," Jo says idly. "Only a few people who've come through the Roadhouse have, and it didn't go real well for them."

Jess shudders, pushing away thoughts of Dracula and blood loss, and moves on to something else. There's no such thing as a genie, but in Islamic culture, Jinn occupy a parallel world and have free will to grant wishes. Sometimes they trap people in their fantasies, keep them there and feed on their blood, but she doesn't know the benevolent to evil ratio of Jinn. Probably not great, seeing as how there's plenty of information about how to kill them. Even so, she wishes that when she wakes up tomorrow, she'll be in California, with Sam wrapped around her, and that none of this will have happened.

It's the last thing she thinks before her head hits the pillow that night.

*

A car horn blares, waking Jess from her dream (sitting beachside in Hawaii drinking a margarita, an old favorite). "Sam?" she mumbles, voice still thick with sleep.

"Morning, baby." He kisses her, completely oblivious to her morning breath and bed-head. "Sleep well? You were out for awhile—scared me a little."

She opens her eyes a little more, realizes it's almost noon. "Another one of Tyler's crazy parties?"

Sam looks more worried now, eyebrows knitting together in concentration. "You don't remember? Must've gotten more wasted than I thought you did." There's ibuprofen and a glass of water on the bedside table, and he passes them to her carefully.

"Guess so."

He clears this throat awkwardly, and then says, "Look, Jess. We, um...we need to talk."

We need to talk. Those are never good words, almost always preface a breakup. Her heart races and her throat tightens a little.

Sam presses on, hand still resting on Jess' shoulder, gone stiff and impersonal now. "I just don't think I can do this any more."

" _What?!_ "

She was sure he was going to propose after he got law school settled; she saw a sheet of paper with potential rings on them in his sock drawer. It just doesn't make sense that he'd end things. They're great together. When he's with her, he never takes himself too seriously, and he keeps her wild streak in check. They don't disagree about much (except books, and movies, and television, and music, but she's weaning him off of pseudo-indie bands and Bond movies), and when they do, they respect each others' opinions.

"I just don't think we want the same things anymore." Sam starts to head for the door, and then—

A car horn blares, waking Jess from her dream. "Sam?" she mumbles, voice still thick with sleep.

"Um," a voice says, and it's not Sam. It's Jo, hand resting lightly on Jess' shoulder. "It seemed like you were having a nightmare. You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," is what she says, though she wants to say _no, it turns out my boyfriend actually is a hunter and I'm in the middle of nowhere looking for him_.

"Good. We're doing physical training today. I'm still working on getting you a gun—"

"A gun?" She's never fired one before, and the thought of doing it scares her.

"Only way to kill werewolves and black dogs, among other things. Remember? It was in one of the books we got from the library. To get rid of ghosts—temporarily—you put rock salt in a shotgun cartridge and blast 'em with it. You can't hunt and not know how to use a gun."

It makes sense, of course, but she still doesn't like it. She's always hated the idea of them. Her parents were big supporters of gun control, worrying especially about concealed weapons, and using one—or the fact that she's going to use one—feels like as big a betrayal as not telling them that she left Stanford after Sam left (they had enough to worry about, between her sisters growing up and her dad's rapidly-expanding practice), and that her leave of absence is indefinite.

"You still in there?" Jo waves a hand in front of Jess' face. "Get dressed, and dress warm. Once we're outside, we're outside for a long time."

Wind sprints come first, and those are hard enough. Sam's dragged her ass out of bed a few times at some ungodly hour to run with him, but it was always warm and there was no resistance pushing her back. She wants to take a scorching shower, curl up in a ball, and sleep, but Jo makes her struggle through push-ups, crunches, and leg lifts before allowing her a water break. Her lungs are burning but she has a feeling she's far from done.

The next day, gas cans from the trunk end up as makeshift weights for Jess to lug around the field. They're a lot heavier than they look, and they didn't look light. "Keep going!" Jo yells. And when Jess tries to slow down: "Faster! _Come on_!" Jo's like a personal trainer, only worse; this kind of exercise must count as some kind of torture.

It's no better at night. In the evenings, there are all kinds of drills: mythology, creatures and spirits, weapons and fighting. Jess practically has to pass out before Jo will call it a day. Even though she knows she has to train before she can kill, Jo puts her through a shitload of it. Jess can't help thinking that if she hunts enough demons, she'll get the one that killed Sam's mom, and that'd be worth giving up her old life.

Days pass, and Jess starts to get a little more used to this new life. Her internal body clock protests the early mornings and all-night drives, and it takes her stomach some time to get used to greasy diner food and almost no fresh fruit or vegetables. She's used to pushing her brain, not her body. Jo's a hard-ass, so training is torture, and it's not even the kind of exercise where she knows she's making progress, but the awful running-through-molasses kind. Everything aches when she's finished for the day: shoulders, calves, feet. Even her nails ache.

Jo starts going out on solo hunts, and Jess gets impatient that Jo won't take her along, frustrated that she's not doing anything to find Sam. It's not until she mentions how good she is at research—Jo's weak spot—before Jo concedes. The job the find looks like it'll be simple, but it's nowhere near Jess thinks Sam is, and when she points it out, it turns into an argument.

"I just don't see why we're doing it. Sam's halfway across the country, and we're not even _trying_ to find him!" Jess knows she's whining but doesn't really care. Jo promised they'd do everything they could to track Sam down, and right now that's not happening.

"We'll get to him," Jo says. "You signed on to hunt, though; not to only take hunts that would lead you directly to him."

Okay, that's fair, Jess thinks. She didn't say she'd only take hunts near where Sam is, but it's disappointing to not be anywhere close to him.

"The point of hunting is to help people, and that's what we're doing," Jo continues. "It's going to take some time to find Sam, but we'll do as much as we can to find him. I promise."

"Why should I believe you?" Jess asks. She's not going to risk her life and go on a bunch of hunts if she's not getting anything—namely, Sam back—out of it.

Jo's lips thin into a hard line. "You have no reason to," she agrees. "But the stuff we hunt wrecked your life. Don't you want to make sure that doesn't happen to anyone else? Don't you want to make the world safer?"

She thinks back to Mary's death, and how that hurt Sam's family. She doesn't want other people to go through the same thing she did, or worse. "Okay," Jess concedes. "But this doesn't mean I'll stick around if we go too long without trying to find Sam."

"I'll take what I can get," Jo says. "Doesn't mean I won't be pissed if you leave. Ready to get to business?" She waits for Jess' nod before continuing. "Okay, this one's a salt and burn. Remind me again what that is."

"When people die, they don't always go peacefully. Sometimes, for whatever reason—anger, revenge, love—their spirit sticks around, and that's what ghosts are. They haunt houses, or bother people, and they need to be laid to rest," Jess recites. After Jo drilling facts into her brain, what she learned is practically muscle memory. It sounds awful, though. It's one thing to lose someone, and it's another to constantly be reminded of that loss.

*

Digging the grave is the hardest part. They've got two shovels but only one flashlight, so they have to take turns digging. It's not raining, which is a small miracle, but it's dark, which just makes everything harder.

"Could you go any slower?" Jo snaps. "We'll be here until morning at the rate you're working."

The shovel hits something hard, and Jess doesn't think she's ever been more relieved. "Guess not."

The corpse is about ten years buried, maybe twenty. Jess pours salt on it, and then gasoline; Jo lights up a book of matches and tosses them in before her fingers can get burned. Easy.

Once it starts to burn, though, the smell turns her stomach. It's awful. She barely makes it away from the flames before she turns and vomits, bent nearly double with the force of it. It doesn't stop when her stomach's empty—she spits bitter vile out before wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

Jo rubs her back and smoothes Jess' hair off her forehead. "Got some water in the car. Painkillers, too, if you want."

"Thanks," she says weakly, falling asleep while the pavement flies by underneath them.

*

Jo plays with her knife when she's nervous or concentrating, twirling it between her fingers; when they're sitting at a table, it leaves little nicks in the wood or Formica. She likes her toast so black Jess wonders how she can eat it without choking, and she never bothers to unpack anything except toiletries, living out of her duffel bag. She listens to her music too loud and her mother about almost nothing.

When Jess goes out early one morning for coffee and bagels, she makes sure to get Jo's black, because she can't see her drinking anything else. "Here," she says, and hands Jo the cup.

Jo takes a long, appreciative sip, and then makes a face. "Please tell me you brought cream and sugar."

"Yeah, in the bag."

She dumps two containers of cream into the cup, and tears open all the sugar packets Jess snagged for later (about six or seven). "Tell anyone I do that, and you're dead," she says.

Jess can't help but smile. "Whatever."

*

She shoots a gun for the first time on a dusty back road in Tulsa—Jo wanted Jess to build up her strength and learn hand-to-hand combat before dealing with firearms. The sky's gray with twilight, but it's not so dark that Jess can't see the cans Jo's lined up on the wooden fence.

Jo hands her a gun, which is lighter than Jess thought it'd be. "Most of the time, we use rock salt in a shotgun shell—sometimes herbs, depending on the creature—but you don't want to try a sawed-off just yet. This is a Dillinger. They're easy to handle. A good gun for a beginner."

There's some recoil after Jess fires it, but the act alone throws her; she falls back, catching herself before hitting the cracked, dry earth.

"You're okay," Jo reassures her. "Everything's okay. The shot wasn't bad, but you're going to need to work on your aim if you want to kill anything." She steps closer to Jess, easing in behind her and letting her hand fall on Jess' hip. "Stand like this." Her body tenses, and shifts as Jo positions her; this time, Jo keeps her hands over Jess' as she fires.

The shot goes straight through the can this time, ripping into the aluminum and knocking it onto the ground.

"Good," Jo says. "Now try it without my help."

Jess practices until it's dark, sunset colors changed into blues and stars beginning to twinkle. Her arm hurts and her ears are ringing a little, but she thinks maybe she can get used to this life.

*

When they're back on the road, following both one of Trevor's leads, and an angry spirit, Jess silently checks her phone, not because she has new text messages, but because she has old ones from Sam still there. _Good luck on your test, babe,_ and _I have a surprise for you when you get home ;)_ and _Hey, I'm at Safeway. What's the name of that conditioner you use? The one that smells like oranges_. Just reading them makes her have to pinch the bridge of her nose to force back tears. God, she misses him. Having him back would be worth every little thing about him that bugged her: his daily run at five in the morning (he tried not to wake her, but the shift of the bed and his heavy footsteps shook her from sleep every time), the fact that he never put the toilet seat back down. She has no idea why he left, and it kills her.

"Hey," Jo says. "You okay?" She thumbs a tear off Jess' cheek. Jess didn't even realize she was crying. "Guess not. Okay, we're taking a snack break."

The guy behind the counter looks disgusted by the fact that they're buying so much junk food, but she doesn't care. She's got all those empty-calorie treats she was only rarely allowed as a child: Yodels, Fritos, Hostess Cupcakes, king-size Snickers... Jo buys a box of fruit-flavored popsicles, even though it's not that warm out, Diet Coke, and Cool Ranch Doritos. She grabs magazines off the rack, too— _Cosmopolitan_ , _Glamour_ , _People_.

In the car, Jo blasts feel-good music (okay, the Spice Girls). "Come one, give me one of those dumb quizzes." She puts on a fake girly voice. "What handbag is best for you? How much do you _really_ know about sex? I love those."

"Okay, lemme get a good one. Ooh! 'Just How Naughty (Or Nice!) Are You?' Let's see...Smooching under the mistletoe: naughty or nice? Ugh," she grunts, frustrated. "That's no fun."

They sing along to the music instead, loud and off-key, their voices half-drowned out by the wind. Jo cracks on a high note, and starts laughing so hard she has to pull the car off onto the shoulder of the road. Her whole body's shaking with it, face flushed and eyes bright. When she finally calms down, she's panting, struggling to catch her breath.

And then she kisses Jess.

Jo's lips are cold, and sour with lemon. Jess shivers a little when they touch her own, but she doesn't pull back. Her heart is racing, there are butterflies in her stomach, and her blood feels hot, but in a good way. She's kissed a few girls before, but only when she was really wasted; it's much better sober. And she could do a lot worse than Jo.

It's over almost as quickly as it happened. Jo pulls away. "Sorry, fuck, I just—sorry," she says, and flushes. "I shouldn't have—"

"No, it's—" Jess interrupts, but they both stop talking, leaving only awkwardness in the air.

*

Jess asks about Sam at every truck stop and motel they eat or stay at. It's a long shot, but Jo said hunters frequent the same places (mostly unintentionally). She gets apologetic "no"'s and curt brush-offs; the one affirmative answer she does get is from an old lady who's practically deaf and probably a little senile, so as much as she wants to take that as proof she's getting close to him, she can't.

In Cincinnati, as they're renting a room at the Econo Lodge, she pulls out the picture of Sam, hoping against hope for some news. The clerk is this teenage boy, short and weedy, face acne-ridden. He stares at Jess' chest while she talks, not even making an attempt to be subtle about it.

"He was traveling with his, well...he said he was his brother. But I'm not so sure..." he says. Jess can smell the pot, causing that familiar tickle in the back of her throat.

"What?" Jess asks.

"They just seemed a little...you know... _close_." The kid looks at her like she should know what he means, some sort of secret message in his eyes.

 _What the fuck?_ she thinks. "I'm sure you've got him mixed up with someone else." The clerk's high, for fuck's sake; there's no reason to believe him, and Sam would never do anything like that. "When did they check out?" she asks, wondering if they could still be here, or at least not too far out of town.

The clerk scans the screen of the ancient computer, bloodshot eyes searching for the information. "Uh, last week."

"We'll take that room, then," she says, unable to mask her excitement. She can't stop fidgeting as the clerk gets their key, eager to scour the room for any traces of Sam. He can't be that far away, and there could be clues to where he's headed, or why he left.

The room is small, but clean enough, and there are ugly orange shag rugs covering most of the rotting hardwood floor. It doesn't take Jess long to figure out what's different about this room—there's only one bed.

"He must've given us the wrong room," she says, thinking aloud to no one (Jo always uses the bathroom first thing after they check in, always needs to go after driving for so long). The bed's barely big enough for Sam, let alone Sam _plus_ another person; he'd had nightmares occasionally, since before they started dating. She talked him into explaining them, and he said that he'd always had them, and as a kid that he'd always had them, and as a kid, he'd get scared and climb into Dean's bed. She'd thought it was cute. "He wouldn't...sleep with Dean now," she says.

"What?"

"Never mind." She can't tell Jo, who'll either laugh at her for thinking Sam's fucking his brother, or call her crazy.

When Jess searches the room, she doesn't find much, but there are a few maps in the drawer, at least a third of the cities on them marked with 'x's, and a t-shirt with a bloodstain under the bed. She wonders what the blood's from (there's not enough on it for the wound to have been fatal) and if it's Sam's or Dean's. She takes the maps and the shirt and puts them in her duffel; the marked off-spots might mean something.

All of a sudden, Jo yawns, and then asks, "So...what are we doing about sleeping? I'm beat, and it's late."

Jess peers down at the rug. She'd be fine sleeping there if it wasn't so gross, and like other motels, and like every other motel they stay at, there's no guarantee that the place is free of mice or rats. "Um," she says. "I guess I could sleep in the tub."

"There's only a shower." Jo shakes her head. "You know what? Never mind. I can share if you can."

"Yeah." It wouldn't be a big deal if she and Jo hadn't kissed a week ago and have been ignoring it since, but they did and they are, so it's a little uncomfortable. There aren't any other options, though, since they can't afford another room, so Jess strips down to her tank top and changes into a pair of Sam's boxers. Jo wears an oversized shirt and some guy's athletic shorts ( _whose?_ Jess wonders, but doesn't ask).

There isn't too much room between them in the bed. Jo's feet are touching Jess', and even though they're back to back, she can feel the heat of Jo's body. "Sleep well," Jess says. She tries her hardest not to think about the kiss, about how Jo would feel under her hands, under her mouth and tongue. It's a good thing it works, or she'd be up all night.

*

It's nice, waking up next to another person, even though Jo steals the covers like Sam never did. Sharing a bed makes Jess feel connected, and safe, though she's trained so much that, at this point, she just might be able take out Sam.

In her sleep, Jess has shifted so her front is pressed to Jo's back, warm and relaxed, but still strong. Her hair smells good, and when Jess' hand...slips to the curve of Jo's stomach, it's soft and smooth. She could lie like this forever.

When Jo starts to wake up, though, Jess tries to surreptitiously get out of bed. Instead, she gets tangled in the sheets and falls to the floor with a _thud_.

"Shit." She's fallen right on a bruise on her leg, too. So much for being quiet.

"Everything okay?" Jo asks sleepily. "You're no use to me if you're hurt."

"Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks for your concern."

"Anytime."

*

The heat in Jo's truck works fine, most of the time, but it makes the vinyl seats so hot that Jess' legs get stuck to them, sweaty and uncomfortable. With Jo's glances at her increasing in frequency, she feels like she's under a spotlight. To keep them both awake, she asks questions, which are thankfully like others people ask on road trips. _Would you rather be blind or deaf? Name five countries you want to visit before you die. Fuck, Marry, Kill: Johnny Depp, Brad Pitt, and George Clooney._ Jess is grateful for it—it keeps her going when she doesn't think she can anymore, when she's tired or hurt or sad but can't stop. Like when the truck gets a flat on I-40 and Jess has to line up the wheel studs with the holes, Jo promises her the first shower when they stop for the night.

After that, they do take a break to get some food and rest a little. Hole-in-the-wall diner, same as usual. By now, she's used enough to the food, but she'd still prefer something healthier, more well-balanced than a bacon cheeseburger and fries.

"Can I get another cup of coffee?" Jo calls to the waitress, watching the sway of her ass as she walks away.

Huh. Jess thought the kiss in Jo's car might've just been a fluke, but apparently not. It sort of makes sense that Jo would like women. Hunters are mostly men: big, tough guys. Well-trained to kill but not gentle at all, and Jo may be a fighter but she's tiny. On the road, or in a bar, a woman would probably be safer; as much as Jess hates to think about it, Jo, small and blonde and pretty, would be an easy target. But then, the thought of Jo having some anonymous fuck in a bathroom or alley at all turns her stomach.

*

Jess tells her parents she's going to Laura's house for Christmas (it'd be too hard to go home, since that's where she and Sam spent the holidays last year, and she needs to get away). Her father is angry; her mother is sad, but mostly they're just confused.

"You didn't come home for Thanksgiving, either, sweetie," her mom says, and Jess can her the concern in her voice. "Kayla and Nicole really miss you."

"I'll come home over spring break," Jess promises, and that seems to placate them a little. It's not like lying to them feels good, and she really does want to see them, but she can't. And it's not like she can just show up at home with Jo at her side. Yeah, that'd go over well. "Mom, Dad, this is the girl I've been living with. I left Stanford, by the way. I hunt things—no, not like animals, like creatures—and we hustle pool and poker in bars." Sure, her parents are open-minded, but they'd still be shocked. Concerned about her leaving Stanford without telling them, too, and curious about Jo. They'd be so disappointed with her choices, Jess doesn't think she could face them right now.

*

Christina Burroughs, recovered alcoholic and mother of two, has been missing since for over a week. Her husband (common-law) insists she isn't drinking again, but no one believes him, which is to be expected. There have been a few other disappearances in the surrounding area recently, though, so Jo decides they're sticking around and digging around.

"Hey, buddy," she says, approaching the little boy in the corner. He can't be more than four or five, and is probably pretty scared of the constant stream of people that have come through his house the past few days.

"You should let me handle this." Jo puts her hand on Jess' shoulder, firm and authoritative. "Go look for..." she jerks her head at the boy. "You know."

"Trust me, I have two little sisters," Jess reassures her. "Kids are all the same."

"I think he's scared of you. You're a giant."

Jess slides to the floor, tugging her skirt back down over her knees. "What's your name?"

"Austin," he says, voice small and scared. "Are you a police officer?"

"That's right." She feels a little bad about lying—kids get lied to enough by their parents; she shouldn't have to tell him something that's not true—but it's what they have to do for the job. "I'm Karen. Can I ask you some questions about your mom?"

"Okay." Austin nods, floppy brown hair falling into his eyes. She imagines that's what Sam must've looked like as a kid. He never had any photos from his childhood.

"Well..." she starts, not really sure how to interview someone, especially a little kid. "Why don't you tell me what your mom was like?"

Austin sniffles, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. "She was fun." Another sniffle, and then, "She played games with me. And gave me hugs. And she smelled like watermelon. Are you gonna find her?"

"We're doing our best, honey."

"Okay."

"Jess," Jo says, popping her head in. "I think I know what's going on. Demons. More than just a couple—looks like a whole pack. I smelled sulfur by the door, and found skid marks in the driveway; our best bet's probably to see where they lead."

*

Christina's holed up in a friend's duplex, leading Jess and Jo there with a trail of sulfur and beer bottles. There's another demon with her, and they run off after Jo splashes some holy water on them. Jess doesn't know a lot about hunting, or even half as much as Jo does, but taking on two demons at once seems like a bad idea. "What's the plan?" she asks.

"I'm guessing you don't know Latin, what with it being a dead language and all." Jo huffs a short, bitter laugh. "I mean, I've heard that sometimes demons can break devil's traps, and it'd be great if we could exorcise them all before it happens. You should stay here and do an exorcism on whichever one comes in first." She ducks out of the room they've taken cover in, making sure to leave the salt line intact. 

She does as she's told, wondering how long she'll have to wait before the demons show.

Not long at all, apparently—Christina sneaks in, silent but deadly, getting a knife to Jess' throat right off the bat. They struggle, and Jess just barely manages to get free. Her eyes flash black when Jess goes to hit her; there's an awful hissing sound when the holy water splashes onto her skin. She's tiny, barely brushing five foot three, but the demon's riding her hard, so Jess ends up on her back, broken coffee table beneath her. There are glass shards all around, spread out like the petals on a flower, and there are at least a few in her back, hot pain and pressure and blood loss clouding her head, but she knows she has to finish the job. 

It takes longer than she expected to find the right page, and she's a little rusty; hopefully it's one of those things she doesn't forget, like riding a bike, like tying a knot. "San—sancte Michaël Archangele, defende...nos in proelio; contra nequitiam—nequitiam et insidias diaboli—"

"Sam doesn't love you, you know," says Christina (the demon inside her, Jess has to remember, or she'll never get through this). "He never loved you."

"That's not true," Jess answers, voice wavering a little, though she manages to keep her hands steady. What the fuck? Jo didn't warn her that the demon would do something like this to distract her, go straight for her weakness. "You don't know what you're talking about. He loved me; he still does."

"Oh, Jessica." The voice is cutting—sarcastic, almost; the...thing tugs at the bonds keeping Christina's wrists against the chair. "I really do. You were just a replacement for Dean. I know what he and Sam do—we all do—and I think you remember. That clerk back in Cincinnati? He was one of us. He gave you a wake-up call, didn't he? Let you know what your little boyfriend's up to?"

"Shut up." Jess throws the last of her holy water in Christina's face, letting it burn her skin. "Esto praesidium. Imperet illi Deus supplices deprecamur: tuque, Princeps militiae Caelestis, satanam aliosque spiritus—" 

Christina coughs, the demon rising and being forced out. "—Malignos, qui ad perditionem..." Jess has to stop for a moment. She can't hear herself think over the coughing, but Jo had said that coughing meant the exorcism was working. "Animarum pervagantur in mundo, divina virtute in infernum detrude. Amen." The black smoke erupts from Christina's throat in a column, rises, and exits the house in a rush, sweeping through the room and out the crack in the door.

It's exhilarating, but tiring. She can't stop wondering if the demon was telling the truth about her and Sam and Dean, if Jo is okay, how she's doing. She wonders if it was bluffing or if it really knew something; if it met Sam before her, if it told Sam that _she_ doesn't love _him_ anymore. Judging from just this one, fighting demons isn't easy. There are shards of glass in Jess' back, her lip is bleeding, and there's a bruise forming under the skin already. Christina's still upright, with only a few scratches and some tears in her clothes, though Jess don't know what kind of bruises she'll have in a day or so.

"How'd it go?" Jo asks. She's got a fresh tear in her jeans and her hair's a mess, but she looks fine otherwise. Glass crunches under her feet as she gets nearer to Jess, and she says, "Must've been tough."

Jess' throat feels tight when she says, "It...it said all this shit to me. About Sam. About how he doesn't love me anymore, about how he's, like, _with_ Dean and I never mattered and..." she trails off, too choked up to continue.

"Demons lie, Jess," Jo says, her hand warm and comforting on the small of Jess' back. "Let's get out of here, okay? You did good."

*

Ellen wants Jo home for Christmas, too, and they go back and forth about it, but Jo wins out since Ellen doesn't have much power over her from all the way in Nebraska. Jo agrees to send a card, though, and the address of one of her PO boxes so Ellen can send a gift.

They don't manage to pick it up before Christmas. Two nights at a Westin Hotel is their splurge; they balance that with cheap eggnog and candy canes from a discount store. _It's a Wonderful Life_ plays on the motel TV and they both cry a little bit, though neither of them is willing to admit it.

New Year's Eve isn't much different. There's half-price champagne in motel glasses (which Jess makes sure to wash extra-carefully) and semi-decent Chinese food. They share a midnight kiss, chaste and sweet, completely missing the ball drop.

Last year, she and Sam went out, which is part of the reason Jess wants to stay in with Jo. It's different, a memory that's all theirs.

*

There's this pack of vicious chupacabras near the border, and sort of near where Ash put Sam last. Jess has no idea where he got the intel or how Ash knows that Sam's trying to find his dad, but she takes it and lets Jo know they've got a hunt. For a while, all the chupacabras been killing were goats, sheep, and cattle (not great, but not something they normally deal with); then they started moving in closer to homes, attacking chickens, turkeys, and even a dog before taking out a farmer.

Chupacabras, as it turns out, are fast little fuckers, but they leave the stink of sulfur in their wake. Jess' nose is attuned to it now, and she knows it never means anything besides trouble.

One of them gets its claws into Jo's leg pretty good, so they end up having to hightail it out of there with only a few still alive. Jo's close to passing out in the car, and all the way back to the motel Jess worries that she's going to lose her. Her trembling fingers are clenched tightly around the steering wheel and she keeps turning around to make sure Jo's still with her.

She stitches Jo up in the ratty bathroom, fingers still a little shaky. It's not perfect, but it'll do the job. Jo grits her teeth when the peroxide hits the wound, hissing out a breath and holding her pain in as tinged-pink water swirls around in the sink.

"Shh, it's okay," she says, letting Jo squeeze her hand. "We'll get this bandaged up, and then go to bed, okay?" But as soon as Jo's standing, albeit with Jess' help, she goes for the whiskey, and it's not until after she takes a long drink that her color starts to return.

"Thanks for saving my ass," Jo says, laughing. "I guess my mom won't be after you after all."

"Good to know," Jess says. "I bet that'd be awful."

"You have no idea," Jo says.

*

She watches her scars change from angry red to soft pink to silvery-white. The scabs, though, she ignores, doesn't let herself pick at them. She doesn't need more scars than she already has. On long car rides, when counting street lights and the dashed lines can't keep her awake anymore, she pokes at the bruises on her legs—new, painful blues and purples; the splotches of yellow-green are sore, aching dully when she applies pressure to them. She's not sure what that says about her, that she likes putting herself in pain, but she's also not sure she wants to know.

*

Jo thumbs open her phone, reads the message, and closes it again after typing a quick reply. "New job," she says. "Succubus in Cleveland. They suck the vitality out of men. ...Through sex. The fun part's that they look just like normal women."

"Actually," Jess starts. "Ash got another update on where Sam was last. From his phone, you know?"

"Of course I fucking know," Jo spits. "Just because I didn't go to Stanford doesn't mean I'm _stupid_. Before my mom made me go to college, I had Ash laying credit card trails for me so I could hunt." She pauses, gearing up of another round of verbal attacks. "We go where the hunt takes us. You know that." Jo's voice is firm, and Jess can't hear any of the compassion she knows is there. "If we happen to run into Sam along the way, then that's great, but we're not gonna spend valuable hours looking for him."

"I'm here to find Sam," Jess says. "Not to risk my life every day trying to save other people."

"All you fucking care about is finding Sam, but we agreed you're not _just_ here to find him," Jo says, face flushing with anger. "What if he doesn't want you anymore?"

That's something Jess has considered but never allowed herself to believe—Sam _loved_ her; they had a great relationship. Jo, the one person who's really helping Jess, brings that up, and it hurts. A lot. "He does. I know he does."

"Right," Jo scoffs. "That's why we're still on a fucking goose chase. Come on. We're doing good by hunting. Do you know how many people you've saved?"  

"It doesn't matter if I can't save the only person I want to." Jess is yelling now, and she knows it but doesn't care. "You go right ahead and do that, be the martyr you want to be, but I won't!"

"I know the concept of doing something for someone _other_ than yourself is hard for a stuck-up rich girl like you is hard to understand, but try to wrap your head around it, okay?" She's gotten condescending now, and her tone makes Jess' stomach churn. "All you want is to find your boyfriend," Jo shouts, viciously slamming Jess back against the wall. Despite the height difference, she's all up in Jess' face. "Guess what? He obviously doesn't want you to find him, so good luck trying to."

"Fuck you," she says, trying not to cry. Jo leaves without another word, and Jess crumples to the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

Jo's gone for at least ten minutes before Jess gets up, holding onto the wall as she does so, to wash the tears off her face and trying to compose herself. There's a cramping feeling in her gut that won't go away, so she flops onto the bed, turning on the TV. It only has a few channels, all in black and white; the only shows on are _Three's Company_ and shitty made-for-TV movies.

What she should do is go out somewhere to distract herself, get away from the thoughts in her head, so she gets cleaned up and leaves. The first bar she finds is about half-full, groups of college kids blowing off steam after a hard week, but Jess is too wired to drink. There's a basketball game on the TV above the bar; she checks the score even though she hates watching sports. An old-school pinball machine beeps and lights up in the corner, and everyone turns and looks when some drunk guy drops his pool cue. She's never really been great at pool, though Sam spent hours trying to teach her ( _Okay, now line your shot up like this_ , and _try choking up on the stick more_. He'd start out with his hands on hers, guiding her, but they had always slipped lower), but she needs something to do. Maybe she can even make a little cash, buy some shampoo or soap that isn't the cheap generic kind. Her top shows just enough cleavage to be a distraction.

Some guy sees her standing by the tables, asks her if she's up for a game. She smiles, twirls her hair, plays up the ditzy-blonde act. It shocks her how easily playing the role comes, that she's being manipulative solely because she can, but she's done a lot of things she never thought she would've since she left college. He's pretty cocky, which makes it even better when she kicks his ass, chalking it up to beginner's luck. She smirks as she pockets her winnings.

"You wanna grab a drink?" he asks.

"I'm good."

The guy sighs exaggeratedly, but turns and leaves, head tipped down as his frat boy buddies rag on him. A few minutes later, though, she feels a hand on the small of her back and whips around to tell him thanks, but no thanks, he's not getting into her pants. "You can get your hands off me now," she growls, trying her best to sound intimidating.

It's not the frat boy who backs off, though; it's a cute guy who holds his hands in the air, a little startled. "Whoa, hey, calm down," he says, smooth, honey-sweet voice making her relax. "I just wanted to buy you a drink."

Jess blushes, embarrassed. "Sorry. There was just this idiot guy who got all pissy because I kicked his ass at pool."

The guy laughs. "Oh, he won't be bothering you again. Trust me."

She raises one eyebrow. "I think that'll be a little difficult, seeing as how I don't know you."

"Dean Travers." He extends his hand and she takes it, the metal of his ring warm against her fingers.

She pauses at that, because the only part of his past Sam had talked about was his brother Dean—a guy that was either the most awesome big brother ever or a complete dick, depending on when she'd asked him. There's no way that this is that Dean, though. He's probably hunting, too. _This_ Dean is really, _really_ hot, and Jess needs to blow off some steam.

"Jessica." Dean doesn't protest the lack of last name, just looks her over in a way that would be subtle if he didn't let his gaze linger a few extra seconds on her tits. She knows she could call him on it, but she feels want curling in her belly. It's a surprise, but a welcome distraction from how crappy she'd been feeling earlier.

"So, Jessie, now that you know my name, how 'bout that drink?" He grins, tilts his head towards the bar.

"It's _Jess_." No one's called her Jessie since she was eleven, and she hates the memory the name brings—a gap-toothed kid whose jeans were more holes than fabric. Her "awkward" stage.

He laughs, a low chuckle from the back of his throat. "Sure," he says, like he's still going to call her Jessie regardless. Dean finds them a rickety table tucked away in the corner, giving them as much privacy as there is in the crowded room. "What are you drinking?" he asks.

"Tequila. With lime, if they have it."

Jess uses the time Dean's gone to get a look at him; he got to check her out, and she didn't get a chance to do the same. He's definitely not her type, and pretty much the polar opposite of Sam, but that's probably a good thing. He's barely taller than her, and solid, with muscles that look like they've come from hours of manual labor, not the gym. His hair's light brown, spiked up a little. The woman behind the bar (mid-thirties, too much makeup) leans over, pushing her chest up at Dean; he says something Jess can't make out from across the room, pays for their drinks, and walks back to the table.

"Thanks," she says, both for the drink and for ignoring the bartender, but he probably doesn't pick up on the second part.

"No problem, sweetheart." He grins, sending sparks of electricity through her body. "So. I'm surprised a pretty girl like you isn't here with her boyfriend." 

She doesn't (can't) say _I sort of have one, but he took off without any explanation_ , so she says, "It's...complicated."

"Complicated like he'll be here in a few minutes to beat me up for hitting on you?"

"You need to work on your game, then; I didn't catch a pick-up line."

"I'm from the FBI, the Fine Body Investigators, and I'm going to have to ask you to assume the position." He's smiling like he's so proud of it, so she gives him a little fake laugh, hoping he misses the eyeroll that follows soon after.

"Nah," she says. "He's not gonna come looking for you." _Or me_ , she adds silently.

"His loss; my gain, right?"

"I guess you could say that."

Dean nods, and asks, "You in school here?"

"No, I'm...thinking about transferring to UMich. You look a little old to be hanging around in a college bar, though." 

"Best place to pick up chicks."

"Thought you'd already picked one up." She tosses him a cocky grin of her own.

"Well, she's let her buy me a drink," he says, winking, " so I'd say we're off to a good start."

This is the part that Jess hates—the awkward, flirty small-talk where she has to size the other person up (without being too obvious) while they're doing the same to her. She's never been great at it; she'd been glad when she met Sam at the beginning of sophomore year (grateful for other things about him, too, of course)—it'd meant an end to all those conversations with guys at parties and coffee shops. She'd been even more glad at the end of junior year when she'd started to think that Sam might be The One, but here she is, talking to some random guy in some random bar.

"Jess?" Dean asks, jolting her out of her thoughts and back into reality. Right. She's been searching for Sam for months, and whether she likes it or not, Jo might just be right. Even if she does find Sam, things might not work out between them, and Jess can't wait around forever.

"Yeah, sorry. You were saying?"

"I wasn't, but, uh, how about you tell me about yourself?" He smiles, all charisma and interest, which makes her feel warm and comfortable, makes her feel liked.

"There's not that much to tell, I guess. I'm twenty-one and majoring in art. I'm an Aquarius and...I like long walks on the beach, piña coladas, and getting caught in the rain."

Dean laughs, bright and uninhibited. "Can't say I'm into yoga, though I could definitely go for some midnight—"

"I'm sure," she says, because he's obviously not putting in time and effort to spend the night with his hand. "Nice necklace, by the way," she tells him, jerking her chin at it. There's some kind of charm on the black cord. He's been toying with it the entire night so she can't make out what it is.

"Thanks. It was a gift from my kid brother." He smiles fondly, and that changes things a bit, warms her up to Dean. He seems like he's probably a good big brother. She can picture a mini-version of Dean, bright eyes and a wide smile, running into his brother's arms whenever Dean goes home to his family.

"I have sisters. Eight and eleven." She misses them—helping Kayla with her homework; cheering on Nicole at her swim meets. Before, she'd been doing her best to block out thoughts of her family; they'd be disappointed if they knew what she was doing, and she couldn't have functioned under that kind of pressure. But now, with Dean talking about his own family, she can't help the rush of feelings.

"Bet they look up to you," he says, and a pang of guilt hits her like a ton of bricks. She hasn't done anything that they should model themselves after, leaving school and the life she'd made for herself. They used to email her every few days and call once a week, but she hasn't spoken to them since Sam left.

"Mmm." It's more of a noncommittal reply than a yes, because she's not sure she can talk about them without getting all choked up. Dean tips his bottle back to get the last vestiges of beer. "Next round's on me," she offers, grateful for the distraction, and reaches for her purse. "Another Bud?" 

"Yeah, but if you're gonna get another shot, I'll have one, too. And can you grab a slice of lime and a salt shaker?"

It doesn't take long for Jess to figure out what Dean's planning—a body shot. Or some form of one, at least, because her top's not nearly low-cut enough. She's done them a few times at parties, either just for fun, or on a dare. She was always way more wasted, and they're probably better suited for Spring Break in Cancún than a dive bar in Ann Arbor, but...the idea of it turns her on.

When she shakes salt out onto her wrist, Dean laughs. "Didn't think you'd actually go for it."

"I'm up for anything." She hopes that isn't too forward or obvious or something. "Here." The lime peel is bitter in her mouth, but it's not that bad. Dean's tongue lingers on her wrist, just for a second, before he brings the glass to his mouth, downs the shot, and leans forward to take the lime from her mouth. She tries to keep her nerves in check and not flush when he looks at her again; says, "I think we've had enough spring break for one night, huh?"

"Yeah, okay." He licks his lips, pink tongue darting out to catch a stray grain of salt from his lip. Briefly, she imagines painting him, because his bone structure would be perfect for it—mixing greens to get the color of his eyes right, freckles dotting his face like constellations in the night sky—but she doubts he'd be able to sit still long enough. "Though if you wanna go wild, don't let me stop you."

"Smartass."

"You know it." Dean uncaps his second beer, pours half of it down his throat without stopping.

"Easy there, tiger," she says. He looks like the kind of guy who can hold his liquor, but it'd be really awkward if Dean passed out in the middle of their conversation.

He sets the bottle back down on the table, edges one hand onto Jess' knee. "You wanna get out of here?" 

Jess nods, and asks, "Where to?"

"You got a room? My lame brother's holed up in ours, reading." He skates his hand up a little higher, calluses rough against her skin, making her shiver.

"Yeah, a couple blocks down. You okay to drive?"

"Always." He loops an arm around her waist, pulling her close when he opens the door to a blast of cold air. "This one's mine," he says, once they've passed a few cars in the lot.

"Damn." It's a really great car, though not exactly what she would've expected from him. "1963 Chevy Impala?" Her dad's kind of an auto buff, and Jess was forced to listen to him wax poetic about his dream cars, all "classics."

"'67. Do all the repairs on her myself." He pats the hood of the car lovingly, and Jess can't help but inwardly roll her eyes a little. Guys get so attached to their cars—really, they're just metal, glass, parts, and wheels, all in one place. He probably won't let anyone else drive it, either; though she can't exactly blame him. The car is obviously special to him, because he's kept it in mint condition, especially for a car that's coming up on forty years on the road. And because he referred to it as "her." Even under the curtain of nightfall, she can see that it's buffed to a high shine, windshield and windows squeaky clean. No papers on the dash or wrappers in the back, not like Jo's truck with half-used tubes of ChapStick and water bottles strewn everywhere.

Dean drives like they're in a race to get back to the motel (and she doesn't really know, maybe they are), and she's sliding the key into the lock when he kisses the back of her neck, breath raising the hair on her skin. Once they're inside, he clicks the locks on the door shut and pushes her up against it, hand cupping her face and thumb stroking over her cheek as he leans in to kiss her. He smells of hair gel and Old Spice, motor oil and leather—stereotypically bad boy, but hot. 

Jo isn't back, and Jess is glad, because that'd make things weird, but part of her was hoping that Jo would be back, or still there, waiting for Jess and wanting to apologize. Then Dean's tongue slips into her mouth, though, and she loses the thought in warmth, the taste of beer and heat and want all wrapped up in one neat package. It makes her head spin in the best possible way.

His hips slot perfectly between her splayed thighs; she can feel the heat of him even through four layers of denim and cotton, making the pulse between her legs intensify.

"Jess," he says. "Is this—I mean, are you okay with this?"

"Yeah," she replies. "I want to."

"Awesome." Dean's face lights up like a kid in a candy store, tugging at her heart because it reminds her a bit of Sam's smiles. He slides his hands down her back, to her ass, cupping it so he can lift her. She swings her legs around his waist, hooking them tight as he stumbles a little, adjusting to her weight. She knows she's not heavy, but she's tall; her weight's spread out, harder to carry. It's only a few steps to the bed, and he lays her down on it, cheap polycotton scratching her back when her shirt rides up. "God, Jess, you're so hot," he says, his voice a low growl in her ear. 

She giggles at that (she's never been good at accepting compliments, especially about her body), glad he's preoccupied with kissing her throat, her collarbone, palming her breasts through her shirt and sweater. Her nipples harden under his touch, peaks that he rolls between his thumbs and index fingers. "Dean... _fuck_." 

"Plenty of time for that," he answers. "All night, even."

"Don't make promises that you can't keep."

Dean's fingers are tugging at the button and zipper of her skirt; Jess gets her shirt and pullover off herself. "Oh, I can keep 'em, baby," he murmurs. "Tell me what you like."

She tries to get the words out, but he starts sucking on her nipples and she can barely concentrate to get his jeans undone. She ends up clutching at his shoulders instead.

Dean pulls away, says, "I wanna eat you out," and she's not going to refuse an offer like that. Dean has a great mouth: his lips are full and soft and pink, and wet where he's licked them; it'd probably be a safe bet to say he's good at going down on girls.

She has to wait before she answers, so her voice isn't ragged and rough. "Yeah. Yeah, I want—" but she doesn't get a chance to say _that, too_ , because Dean's kissing her again. 

He tugs her panties down her legs and off, slides his hands back up her skin like he wants to touch every inch of it. He's kneeling at the foot of the bed before she has time to ask what he's doing, wrapping his hands around her knees and pulling so her ass is practically hanging off, legs draped over his shoulders. She feels so naked like this, exposed, even though the blinds are drawn and it's just the two of them.

"You smell so good." The words vibrate against her skin, making Dean laugh when her hips buck up. "Plenty of time," he repeats, brushing his thumb over her clit and stroking, way too lightly.

She tries to direct his mouth with her hands in his hair, not pushing, just guiding, and once Dean's mouth is finally on her, tongue dipping in, she knows he's good—can already tell. And from the sounds he's making, these little muffled groans and murmurs she can't make out, he likes it almost as much as she does. Jess has to press her head back to the mattress to keep from squirming too much. Dean's mouth is all warm, wet heat and pressure and insistent tongue, hardly pausing to take a breath.

When she gets the air back into her lungs, she sputters, " _Jesus_ , Dean," and pulls him up for a kiss. His hair is soft against her palm when she strokes it, and she gets him the rest of the way undressed so he can fuck her. The sheets slide against her back as they move up the bed, tickling her. Dean snags a condom from his wallet, fingers fumbling first with the wrapper and then with the latex, and she takes over, rolling it onto him and squeezing around the base of his cock when she's done.

He pushes into her slowly, gently, like he's afraid she'll snap in his arms if he's not careful. She holds his jaw, fingers leaving white marks on his skin, and says, "Dean. It's not...it's okay." She thought he'd be all bravado (she's dealt with his type before); even after the amazing oral sex, Jess is pleasantly surprised. He fucks her sweet and slow, hands playing over her skin; he presses two fingers to her clit and rubs while kissing the underside of her jaw. She comes first, pleasure pulsing through her hot and fierce, feeling weightless and breathless, and Dean speeds up his thrusts, pushes up into her, coming himself while she's riding out the last waves of it.

Jess is halfway to sleep when she feels the bed dip as Dean rolls out of it before she can ask him to stay a little longer, maybe even for the night. She hears the water running, figures he must be cleaning up. The room smells like sweat and sex, and Dean rids himself of it as soon as possible. He stops by the foot of the bed to pick up his clothes, grunts, "I gotta get going," and starts getting dressed, quick and efficient even in the post-sex haze.

It's a surprise when Dean reappears at the head of the bed—he manages to walk silently even with those ridiculous combat boots (she notices the thick heels and laughs lazily)—and leans over it so he can slip his tongue into her mouth again. "I'll see you around," he says, though they both know he won't.  

*

 When Jess wakes up, she feels empty. She'd thought that casual sex would make her feel better, make her forget the things Jo said to her, and it did, but now she's alone, without Jo for the first time in months, and it doesn't feel right.

Her contacts are still in and she has a killer hangover. There's a bottle of water and two pills on the nightstand, along with a note scribbled on the motel stationary: _Thanks for last night. ;)_ Dean. There's a number scribbled next to his name, but she can only make out a few digits. It's not like she'll ever see him again, anyway.

She gets herself cleaned up and dressed, and takes a walk to get breakfast. After she eats (chocolate chip muffin, apple, orange juice), she lingers at the table, not wanting to go back and sit in an empty room, only her feelings to keep her company, and not good ones, either.

Jo's there when Jess opens the door, though; she stinks of smoke and booze, her lips are swollen and red, and what little makeup she has on is smeared. She smells like sex. Jess doesn't ask who Jo was with, and Jo doesn't volunteer the information. The rush of jealousy she feels sort of surprises her, even though Jo doesn't belong to her, or anybody. It hurts, but it's not like Jess didn't do the same thing last night.

"Long night?" Jess asks, sarcasm slipping into her voice. _I hate fighting with you._ Before Jo can answer, she blurts out, "I hate fighting with you. It sucks. You're who I see when I get up in the morning, who I spend all day with, and the last thing I see before I go to bed. I don't want—"

"I was a total bitch," Jo says, relieved. Her face softens, and the dead look in her eyes gives way to light. "I shouldn't have said what I did. He's out there, somewhere, and he's bound to turn up sometime."

"But maybe he won't," Jess admits. "Maybe he thought running away from me would be easier than a breakup, and who knows? Maybe it is." She moves a little closer to Jo. "I can't do this without you, though, so don't you take off in the middle of the night."

"I won't," Jo promises.

*

She's been losing pieces of herself for awhile, but she wakes up in a rundown motel room in West Virginia and doesn't feel the same at all. The mirror is cracked and dirty, but even through the distortions, she doesn't recognize the girl looking back at her. Her lips are chapped; licking them makes them a little more pink, and wetter, but they burn as the moisture disappears. Her hair is messy from more than just sleep, full of split ends, damaged from the harsh winds on the highway. She doesn't condition it in the shower anymore, or style it—it started to seem high-maintenance, and a little weird, to spend time tugging at it in the bathroom every morning.

So much of her was at Stanford, with Sam, and without him, she feels incomplete. It's hard to keep track of what she's pretending her name is: Lily Stevens, Naima Coltrane, Angela Goodman, Kaitlin Walters, or who she's supposed to be: FBI agent, reporter, social worker, TV repairman. Especially when the only person she wants to be is Jessica Moore, student, but she doesn't even know if that's possible anymore. She's changed so much.

She misses girls' nights out with Rebecca, Laura and Amy, and lazy Sunday mornings in bed with coffee and bagels and the _Times_. World affairs aren't even on the list of things to read when they buy four different papers and look for hunts. College life seems like it's a million miles away; going back doesn't seem like an option.

Her body is smaller, thinner, more hard lines and fewer curves. Even with the diet of food that comes mostly from gas stations and diners, even with the muscle she's gained, she's lost at least five pounds, and most of her clothes are a little loose, cheap belt holding up her jeans, so flimsy that it barely does the job. Ammo and food come before new clothes, though, so she makes do with what she's got, even if that does mean ending up with graveyard dirt down the back of her pants.

Jess' head is clearer now; she's figured out the feelings that had built up and sort of spilled over when she and Jo fought. She's realized that she's not projecting her want for a relationship onto the nearest available person—Jo—but she's attracted to Jo, who's smart and strong and keeps Jess going when she doesn't think she can. She paints Jess' nails and cleans her cuts. She's Jess'f best friend, really, but...Jess wants more. It's not something she tells Jo, who probably doesn't feel the same way, after the fight and their indiscretions, even though it's always in the back of her mind.

*

Jess turns twenty-two just after they cross the state line into Wyoming. They've been driving for thirty-six hours, stopping only to pee and to get gas and food. Sleep is in three-hour shifts, though Jo still hates riding shotgun and complains about it every chance she gets. They're on a tight schedule—a full moon is fast approaching and werewolves are pretty hard to track until after they've already killed.

Once they're done, though, Jo buys a supermarket-brand cake, a jumbo bag of chips, and a six-pack. The cake is stale, with too-sweet frosting, but she gets a decent buzz from the first beer, and even though it takes her half the night, it does loosen her up enough to kiss Jo. It's more relaxed this time, but if things goes badly, at least she'll be able to blame it on the alcohol.

"What about Sam?" Jo asks against Jess' mouth.

"What?"

"I really like you, and I know you're in love with Sam and everything, but—"

"I like you, too. I love Sam—" she says, and Jo gets this crestfallen look on her face. "I love Sam, _but_ ," Jess adds. "Like you said the other night, finding him is a long shot. I can't spend my whole life waiting for him to come back to me."

"And if he does?" Jo prompts.

"I'm not sure I could even be with him after what he's put me through. I gave up a lot to help you hunt so I could find him, and I don't know if it's still worth it." Carefully, Jess considers what she'll say next. "I like you. I think this could work out. And since we're both being honest here, you should probably know I, uh, haven't kissed a girl sober," she confesses. "Before you, I mean. And I haven't gone further than that."

"It's okay." Jo smiles. "I have. And having a girlfriend isn't that different than having a boyfriend. But there is more clothes-sharing and communicating, and less farting."

"Great," Jess laughs. It's a joke, yeah, but it's probably also somewhat true, except that she and Jo can't share clothes.

"But really," Jo adds. "I want this to work."

"Me too." They trade soft, easy kisses until their mouths are sore from it, lips chapped. "We should probably get to bed. It's late."

"Yeah," Jo says. "We have lots of time for other things."

*

It's snowing when Jess wakes up the next morning, big, fat flakes drifting down and landing silently on the ground. She rolls out of bed, careful not to wake Jo, who's still out cold, and pads into the bathroom to brush her hair and teeth and wash her face.

When she's done, and more alert, thanks to the cool water, she goes over to the window to see how bad the storm is. She knows Buffalo usually gets a lot of snow, but this is way more than average (at least, she thinks). They'll probably be snowed in until at least Monday; luckily, they stocked up at the Rite Aid last night, and the motel, which is nicer than most, has a mini fridge and a microwave.

She's polishing off her Pop-Tart—S'Mores, and she likes them better frozen, but she's making do—when she glances outside again, checking to see if it's still snowing. It is. The view reminds her of doing landscapes in Drawing I. It takes her a minute to remember the last time she picked up a pencil or a brush, before she remembers that she'd wanted to chase away her emotions with acrylic paints and pastels after Sam left, but couldn't. She suddenly feels out of practice and misses being in the studio, the single-minded focus of getting wrapped up in a project.

There's some decent paper and charcoal in her bag. As soon as her fingers are curled around the charcoal, the weight comforting and familiar in her hand, she tries sketching out the snow-covered trees and bushes outside, but everything looks off. She's always liked drawing people better, likes capturing emotion and hope and life on the page.

Jo sleepily mumbles something, and Jess remembers that she's not alone. Jo is there and breathing in slow, steady breaths and is as much of an inspiration as anything (not that Jess should need inspiration, but sometimes she does). The sun's rising, soft pink and deep orange filtering in through the dirty window and onto the white cotton sheets. It tints Jo's winter-pale cheeks rosy, making her look healthier, happier.

Jess starts by outlining, the routine giving her a familiar thrill as she works at mapping out the lines of Jo's body. She's all angles and planes, slim legs and delicate bones—more Degas's dream than Boticelli's, but beautiful just the same. Jo's face is a little harder to draw, half-hidden in shadow, forehead wrinkled even in sleep, but Jess can fill in the gaps without much of a problem, all the glances stolen in the truck or a diner or at a county clerk's office paying off.

She likes the finishing touches best: shading in an angle or the light, adding in the details that make a person unique. Jess dots in the freckles—one in the hollow of Jo's throat, a few on her hip—and adds a few stray wisps of hair before signing her name and dating it at the bottom.

"Hey," Jo says, and Jess tucks the drawing into a book, watches Jo rub the sleep out of her eyes.

"Hey, yourself. You've got..." she gestures to her chin, hoping Jo will pick up on it.

"Oh, thanks," Jo says, flushing as she wipes at her face with the sleeve of her shirt. "Sorry."

"No, it's fine. I didn't want to wake you. You looked really...peaceful."

Jo snorts. "Right. I'm sure I look great like this. I'm gonna grab a shower, and then we can see about breakfast."

While Jo's occupied, Jess hides the drawing under one of the stacks of books—no place else to put it, really—and cleans up around the room, since they don't use maid service. They rarely unpack their things, but there's gear scattered across the floor.

Just as she's finishing up, she hears the pipes squeal, signaling the end of the shower, and then the almost-silent sound of Jo's bare feet on the floor. Since they can't leave, they'll have to occupy themselves with research, and the room will be covered with papers soon enough.

Jo's wrapped in a cloud of steam and a threadbare towel, face scrubbed clean of last night's leftover dirt and grime.

"There's some cereal and Pop-Tarts, or you could have frozen dinner for breakfast, which is kind of gross. It looks like we're snowed in for a couple days, at least. I know that fucks up our plan to meet Tamara in Boston and help her out with those hauntings, but..."

Jo tugs on her clothes, sighing. "I'll let her know." She plops down next to Jess, eyeing the snow outside. "These are gonna be a long couple of days." When she lifts the stack of books from the table, it leaves Jess' drawing in plain sight. "You drew this?"

Jess' cheeks must be bright red. She can _feel_ them flaming. "Who else? It's just a rough outline...um, sorry about the—"

"No, Jess, it's _gorgeous_. I didn't know you were that talented," Jo says, reassuring her. She blushes. "God, that sounded cheesy. I mean, you're really good. Why didn't you mention it?"

"Never seemed relevant. You can't exactly kill a shapeshifter with a pencil."

Jo giggles, the sound surprisingly girlish. "True." She gets up, reaching for the box of cereal—she's so graceful, movements deliberate and thought-out, while Jess is all awkward height and too-long limbs. "You're staring," she observes.

"No, I'm not," Jess says defensively.

"Yeah, you are. Do I have cereal on my face or something?"

"No, nothing like that. It's just—I...you. Just." Jess' ears are pounding, blood rushing to her head, but she tries to calm down. "You look... _God_ , you look so gorgeous right now. You have no idea, do you?"

Jo shakes her head. "I'm nothing special. Really. You're very sweet, though. C'mere." She pulls Jess close, cupping her jaw and brushing her fingers over Jess' lips.

There's intent in Jo's kiss, a desire or promise of more. Jess slides her hand up Jo's shirt, skin warm and soft under her fingers. Jo's breasts are small, but firm, peaked nipples rubbing against Jess' palm. "I haven't...done this before," she breathes, nervous energy getting the better of her. They've already been over that.

"I know," Jo assures her. "Just relax. I'll take care of you." Fingers move quickly over the buttons of Jess' shirt, and then it's off.

Jess trusts Jo completely, knows Jo would never intentionally hurt her, but she's still a little apprehensive. She probably has a right to be—it's her first time with a girl, after all. She wants it to be good for both of them. Letting herself get lost in the heat of Jo's mouth, her tongue, Jess misses the feeling when Jo's lips move to her neck.

There's a sudden flash of pain—Jo bites, then licks the sting away. "Wanted this for so long," Jo says. "Thought about it all the time." Another little nip, and then: "In the car. At the library." Her voice drops, low and rough. "In the shower. What you'd look like...what you'd _sound_ like." Jess whimpers a little, and Jo smiles. "Not what I thought. Sometimes you'd catch me staring at you, and I thought you'd finally figured it out, but you never did, and I wondered how clueless you could be."

"I knew," Jess admits. "Sort of. I mean, I'd feel...something I couldn't explain, and I never—don't stop doing that!" Jo's tongue is moving across her breast, flicking at her nipple, somehow aware that it makes Jess' knees go weak and heart pound her chest.

Jo slips a hand beneath the waistband of Jess' shorts, into her panties, just grazing the edge. "You're so beautiful like this." Ducking, kissing a path down to where her hands are, Jo's tongue curls over the corner of her mouth as she starts to learn what makes Jess tick.

Jess wants to see what it feels like from the other side, though. To take control of the situation, like Jo hasn't really let her do before. "I want to..." Jess puts her hand over Jo's, stopping it. "Show me?"

Jo swallows audibly. "Yeah.

Jess takes Jo's place on the bed while Jo strips. She kneels in front of the other, running her hands up clean, apple-white skin that leads to the neat triangle of hair at the apex of Jo's thighs. She rubs a thumb over Jo's clit first, watching how Jo's eyes flutter shut as she arches into the touch. "You like that?" she asks, though the answer is pretty obvious.

"Stop, and I hurt you," Jo threatens. "Ah—" she sucks in a breath, shaky; slides a hand down her chest to play with her own nipple. " _Fuck_ , do it already."

It's so easy to slip a finger inside Jo—just one, to start. Easier still to go straight to her g-spot and then back off, leaving her flushed and frustrated but too stubborn to ask for more. Jess uses that to her advantage, working in a second slow as molasses: twist-curl, twist- _push_ until Jo's hips are shoving down and Jess' hand is bent at a dangerous angle and she has to pull back, worrying her lip as she does so. Is she doing... _this_ okay? Too hard or too soft? Too much pressure or—

"God, your _mouth_ ," Jo moans, and then looks down. "Shit, you don't have to, I just—"

Jess cuts her off with a hard kiss, psyching herself up. She really does want to; she's just nervous. "Show me."

Jo gives her a playful nudge in the right direction. "Just start with what works for you." She's wet and pink, smells of soap and sweat and lotion—familiar, but somehow a little different now that they're doing this.

Jess dips her head, licks tentatively. The taste isn't bad at all—earthy and rich, and a little salty, but not like how guys taste. Her fingernails (painted with blue polish that Jo bought for a dollar) leave angry red half-moon marks on Jo's hips, and Jo clutches at Jess' shoulders, murmuring words of encouragement.

"Like that," she says, words turning breathy as Jess swirls her tongue. "Little bit to the left...not too fast... _shit_." Voice breaking, hands tangling in Jess' sweat-sticky curls, spine curving into an arch, and it's fucking _hot_.

Jess ruts against the sheets, finally giving some attention to her own needs. Her scalp is aching from the pull and tug of Jo's fingers in her hair, the hot, sharp burn keeping her from coming, though she hasn't been touched yet. Jo moans as Jess presses down on her clit, and then she's done.

When Jo comes, it's without warning, writhing gracelessly on the sheets and choking on the single syllable of Jess' name. She clenches around Jess' tongue, riding it out as long as she can, and when her breathing finally slows, she looks a little embarrassed. "Now you," she says, grinning.

Fingers press into her—light, teasing motions that fill Jess with need. She's warm and wet and practically aching for it. "Come on, do it," she urges. "Please."

That's what does it, apparently. Jo pushes two inside in one fluid movement, crooking them at just the right angle and mouthing at Jess' collarbone, leaving marks. Mine written in purples and blues, and Jess wouldn't have it any other way.

*

In late February, when her parents ask about her trip home, Jess feigns mono, saying that she's not up to the trip and doesn't want to get anyone else sick. She thinks they can tell that she's lying, but isn't sure.

"I'm worried about you, hon," her dad says.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Jessica," her mom says. "You're breaking all your promises."

Jess doesn't say anything.

"Can you put Sam on?" her mom asks. "I want to talk to him for a minute."

"He's out," she lies, voice catching in her throat for the first time in a long time. "I'll have him call you when he gets back."

*

Jess' email inbox shows an email from Rebecca (sent to just about everyone Rebecca knows), saying that her brother, Zack, has been arrested for killing his girlfriend. Jess is shocked. He was never violent—wouldn't even hurt a fly—and Jess has this weird feeling that something she and Jo would take care of is behind it all. Hunters' intuition, maybe, if there is even such a thing.

"We need to go," Jess says. "St. Louis." She shows Jo the email. "Zack wouldn't do this. There's got to be something weird involved."

"I hate to say it, but you're biased. What if there isn't anything unusual? What if you just didn't know him as well as you thought?"

"There's something weird," Jess insists. "And if there isn't, then I need to be there for Rebecca. She's a close friend."

"I guess we could go down and check it out," Jo hems. "For a few days."

"I'm driving." Jess snatches the keys off the table. "Pack it up."

*

"So this is Jo," Rebecca says when they meet, eyeing her up and down. 

"I've heard a lot about you," Jo says, and then, "Sorry about your brother."

"What can we do?" Jess asks.

"Zack didn't kill Emily." Rebecca wipes her eye, catching a tear before it rolls down her cheek. "He loved her. I loved her. He would never do anything to hurt her. And the police said they've got a security tape—that there's no getting out of this now. He could go to jail for _life_."

"Not if we have anything to do with it," Jess says. "We'll figure out what happened."

"We should take a look at that security tape," Jo suggests. "See if we can get to the bottom of this. You think maybe you could get your lawyers to show it to you?"

"Stole it off one of their desks already." Rebecca laughs a little, which is good to hear. "It shows Zack coming home at ten-thirty, and Emily was killed after that. He was with me until midnight, at least, having a couple beers."

"Look at the timestamp." Jo points at the screen. "Twenty-two oh-four; that's just after ten. You said time of death was about ten-thirty."

"Our lawyers hired some kind of video expert. He says the tape’s authentic. It wasn’t tampered with."

All of a sudden, Jo starts coughing, and it sounds like she's going to hack up a lung.

"Hey, Bec, do you think you could grab her a glass of water? She's had this cough all week," Jess says.

As soon as Rebecca leaves the room, Jo stops. "Check this out." She rewinds the tape, then replays it. Zack looks at the camera, eyes glinting silver.

"Camera flare?" Jess guesses.

"Not like one I've ever seen. Some kind of double, maybe. Bet they're pretty hard to catch."

"Zack's been remanded without bail, though, so if we see something that looks like him walking around..." Jess says. "We should stay a few more days, see if there's anything we can do. I should make sure Becky's okay, anyway."

*

“Turns out some guy was arrested for trying to kill his wife," Jo says, stepping into the bathroom while Jess is brushing her teeth.

"Violent week. So?"

"Apparently, he was driving home from a business trip when his wife was attacked."

Jess spits into the sink. "Now we've got another case like Zack's. Like I said, this is definitely our kind of problem."

"Shapeshifters, probably. We should head out, see if we can find its lair."

"Great. Just another day at the office," Jess says tiredly.

"Yep," Jo agrees. She packs a bag with the usual: salt, holy water, knives, bullets, flares, a flashlight, and batteries, motioning for Jess to do the same.

Jess isn't exactly sure how to find a shapeshifter, but Jo appears to know what she's doing, so Jess follows her lead. "What are we looking for?" she asks.

"A trail," Jo says, eyes flicking to where there's blood smeared on a nearby telephone pole. "Someone came this way. Let's see where it leads." There's blood on the side of a building, too, and a small puddle on the street, where it just stops at a manhole cover. "Bet this runs by Zack's house, too."

"Down the rabbit hole it is, I guess." The sewer smells awful—well, _duh_ , Jess thinks.

"It's probably using the sewer system to get around," Jo says. "Look at this." There's a pile of blood and skin on the ground; Jo picks some of the skin up with her knife. "Gross. Maybe the shapeshifter sheds when it changes shape."

"How do we kill it?" Jess asks.

"My dad's books say it's a silver bullet to the heart."

"Your favorite." Jess smiles. And then walks directly into another little pile of skin. " _Ugh_."

"Looks like it's lived here for a while."

"Who knows how many murders he’s gotten away with?" Something moves behind Jo; the thing, probably. "Jo!" Jo turns and gets punched square in the mouth—Jess can hear the sickening _crack!_ and hopes none of Jo's teeth get knocked out—and falls to the ground. Jess reaches for her gun (no silver bullets loaded in yet) and shoots a few times, but misses. "Shit." She helps Jo up, pressing her sleeve to Jo's lip.

Jo shoves her away. "'M’fine. Let's go.”

They try to chase it, but the shapeshifter climbs out seconds before they do, turning the corner.

"We should get out of here and split up, see if we can find the son of a bitch. I'll take this side, you take the other, and we'll meet back here," Jo says.

"Okay." Jess keeps her gun at the ready (hidden in her jacket, but still) while she looks around for the thing, though it wasn't in Zack's form when it hit Jo. She checks over her shoulder, just in case it doubled back; when she turns around again, Sam is standing in front of her.

"Jess," he says, only...his voice sounds different—not much, but slightly, and she recognizes it. But he looks the same, minus the fact that he's in desperate need of a haircut, and when he puts his arms around her, she feels like everything's back to normal.

"I've been looking for you," Jess says, feeling everything and nothing at the same time. This is the moment she's been waiting for, and after so many months of searching and hoping and then starting to give up that hope, Sam's right here, exactly the same except for his too-long hair. It doesn't feel like she'd imagined it would: she's not crying and neither is he; something is off. "Do you have any idea how long I've been looking for you? You just _left_."

"I had to. My family needed me."

"Right," she scoffs. "The family you hated. The family you said tried to force you into the family business. The family you ran away from. What about me, Sam? We were supposed to be a family."

"It's not like that," he claims. "If I could've told you what I had to do, I would've. But you wouldn't have believed me."

"Oh, I know all about you now—your parents, your history. I heard some... _interesting_ things about you and Dean, too."

Sam flushes red, and it's not cute anymore. He looks guilty. "Who told you that?" he asks.

"Does it matter? They told me more than you did, anyway. And it seems like you left me for your _brother_. God, Sam, I—I thought you loved me."

"I do, Jess, really it's just—"

"It's just _what_?" she asks, frustrated and wanting a straight answer.

There's a gunshot, and Sam crumples to the ground, motionless. Jo rushes out from behind Jess before she can even react. "It wasn't him," she says. "I saw his eyes glow. It's the shifter."

"Oh," Jess says. Numbness washes over her; she can't cry, which she guesses it's better than breaking down. "Oh."

"Let's get you out of here," Jo suggests, leading her back to the car. She drives away quickly, tires screeching against the road, and doesn't stop until they're out of town.

"You have to know that's not how Sam really feels," Jo says. "Shifters are fucking evil. They figure out your weakness, and then exploit it. "You have to know it's not the truth."

Jess doesn't say anything in response. She can't; her throat's too tight.

*

Jo tries to bring Jess back out of her shell again, and Jess is grateful for it, really, but sometimes she just wants to be left alone. Between Jo's check-ins, questions, snack breaks, and random non-sequiturs, Jess feels like she's going crazy. To drown out the noise, she sticks her headphones in her ears, cranking the music as loud as it can go. That works for a few hours, which is longer than Jess expected it would, but when Jo finally notices Jess isn't responding, she yanks the earbuds out and powers down Jess' iPod. "We're a team," she says, blunt nails skimming down the length of Jess' arm. "We can't function as a team unless I know what's going on with you, okay?" Jess nods, and lets Jo drag her to some chick flick later that day, lets Jo buy candy and popcorn and soda.

Afterwards, Jess feels a little better, and when she sleeps, she doesn't replay her time with the shifter over and over as a nightmare.

*

A nest of vampires in Washington proves to be almost too much for them. Cattle mutilations in the Corn Belt tip Jo off, and they take a handful of easy salt-and-burns in the area, with Jo keeping an eye on the Northwest— "probably where they'll go next." She's right, of course. She almost always is, and she knows it, sometimes gets a little cocky about it.

Jess isn't sure they can handle a hunt like this, but one of the vamps gets a trace on Jo's scent, so they've got to finish this one, and do it right.

"And how do you kill vampires?" Jo prompts her. They're gearing up for the hunt: cleaning weapons, getting organized.

Jess thinks back to the books she'd read when she was just getting started, but doesn't remember seeing anything about vampires. " _Not_ with a stake through their hearts?" she guesses.

"Funny." Jo's lip twitches, just the corner of her mouth. "From what I've heard, you have to cut their heads off. I'm not sure how true it is, but it's the best we've got, so we'll need machetes.

They rock-paper-scissors to see who gets to haul ass out to this weird surplus weapons store. Jess loses, and resigns herself to a long afternoon of driving and possibly getting hit on by some guy hawking AK-47s.

Jo's truck, while a junker of one, is something Jess has grown to love. It holds up when they need it to, even though it could get more miles to the gallon. Mostly, though, she likes it because it's where she and Jo kissed for the first time.

*

The nest is bigger than either of them expected. Everyone's coupled up and sleeping in hammocks. Off to the side is what looks like a little room, kept private by red velvet curtains.

Jo motions her away from the room and back outside so they can plan.

"No _way_ we can do this!" Jess says. She's trying to keep her voice down, but she's scared and it shows. "There's too many of them to kill."

"By decapitation, yeah," Jo agrees. "But Tamara said torching 'em'll probably work."

"Worth a try, right? If not, we could always lure them somewhere secluded, pick them off one by one."

Luckily, Jo's got a fire starter log in the trunk. The nest doesn't catch as easily as they hope, but it does, going up in a multicolor blaze of flames that'd be beautiful if the situation were different. The warehouse burns to the ground, and if the vampires make it out "alive"...well, Jess and Jo will have to come back with reinforcements.

*

Even though they're dating (can it be called dating if they don't go on dates?), life isn't really that different. There are good-morning kisses, and goodnight kisses; kisses in the bathroom and (depending on where they are) at meals and gas stations. They sleep together (which, aside from being awesome, saves money), and share the shower sometimes (saves hot water), but other than that, the routine is still the same. Jess has to put up with Jo's crappy music. Jo rolls her eyes every time Jess asks for just a little gravy with her biscuits, or French fries "extra-extra-crispy."

People do stare at them, but the supernatural seem to love sleepy little Midwestern towns which probably don't have many same-sex couples. And if Jess is going to be shallow (she'll admit to being guilty of that every once in a while), there aren't too many couples as hot as she and Jo are. They can't hide that they're a couple, because Jo likes to bite and scratch, likes to make sure people know Jess is hers.

*

Jess' phone beeps to let her know she got a text, which is from Ash. There's no one else on the road, so she opens it, quickly scanning the contents, which are a set of coordinates where Sam is right now. He's probably twenty miles away, and the fact that she has no desire to see him shocks her. But despite her initial reservations about hunting, she can't imagine going back to the life she had before.

Jo is dozing in the passenger seat, and jumps a little when Jess pokes her. "We there yet?" she asks.

"Nope," Jess answers. There's no real way to casually segue into it, so she just says it: "Ash knows where Sam is."

"You mean where he was last," Jo corrects.

"No, right now. It's maybe half an hour away."

"That's great!" Jo exclaims, but Jess can sense the undertone of sadness in her voice. She still asks, "Why aren't you more excited? This is what you've been waiting for."

"Yeah, I know. But honestly, I don't know if it'd be such a good idea," Jess admits. "It'd just be awkward. He's not who I want to be with anymore."

Jo smiles, big and bright, and Jess can practically feel that warmth seeping into her body. Jess barely even notices as they drive past the exit for Franklin, and doesn't regret her choice at all.

*

Summer in Mississippi, and Jess feels like she's going to suffocate from the thick heat hanging heavy in the air. She hasn't gotten her hair cut in months, and it's sweaty against her shoulders, her back. Without much thought, she cuts off her ponytail, metallic _snip snip snip_ of the scissors loud in the silence. She considers adding bangs, but decides against it; they'd be crooked.

When Jo sees her, she doesn't say anything, but gapes open-mouthed for a minute until she realizes that she probably looks like a fish, and then closes it. Without her long hair weighing her down, she feels freer, lighter— _happier_ , even. Like something's been lifted off her shoulders.

In bed, Jo says, "I like it." Her nails tickle Jess' head, the feeling intensified; Jo tugs on it as they rock against each other, pulls it when she comes ( _hard_ ), body trembling.

The sore scalp Jess ends up with is completely worth it.

*

In Oklahoma, Jo gets sunburned. There's an ever-present flush on her face, like she's embarrassed. Her arms and legs and shoulders are pink, and so tender that when she flops into bed, skin reddened even more from the shower, she winces, and gingerly gets back out, reaching for the nearest item of clothing—an oversized t-shirt—to cover herself up with. She paces until Jess falls asleep, is pacing again when she wakes up, and Jess stops at the first drugstore they see to buy some aloe vera gel. Jo grumbles in protest, but sighs contentedly when she rubs it on. "Thank you," she says, and Jess feels warm inside.

*

Jess never thought she'd end up like this, living out of motel rooms, traveling the country like a gypsy, _hunting_. She still misses California, and the hours she used to spend painting in the studio. She misses having somewhere to go home to, and her family and friends, of course, and Sam, but less. He doesn't cross her mind as much, and the pain she felt when he first left is hardly there. Doing what she does isn't easy, but with Jo at her side, the road beneath them, anything is possible.

**Author's Note:**

> Acknowledgements:
> 
> → scorpiod1 gave me the idea in the first place, and encouraged me so much along the way. Without her, I would have deleted everything a long time ago.
> 
> → sendthewolves assisted me with coding.
> 
> → opheliahyde provided encouragement, support, and also helped me code.
> 
> → damelola and recrudescence supplied endless wisdom and expertise in many areas.
> 
> → cantarina1 was invaluable as a beta and cheerleader. She caught little errors, helped me rework the opening, and spent a lot of time talking everything over with me.
> 
> → scintilla10 stepped in at the last minute to provide a wonderful beta job. Without her, I would've been screwed; she gave me all kinds of great notes and was always available to talk things over with me.
> 
> → breea1 also responded to my call for help, and her notes were really valuable in helping me smooth over rough spots in the final draft.
> 
>  → familiardevil, in addition to cheering me on and reassuring me that everything would be okay, chose to make art for me. She was so easy to work with and extremely talented and I can't thank her enough.


End file.
